


















* 






















































\ 



























/ 


/ 











THE 



I 


LV I E S. 


21 Koocl. 


Cj t a.\'K N vvr> , U ; h a v, r*ra^ ix fNjj. \<y 


BY THE AUTHOR OK 

:J JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN,” “THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY .* 1 
“OLIVE,” “A LIFE FOR A LIFE,” “A BRAVE LADY,” 
“THE WOMAN’S KINGDOM,” “HANNAH,” &c. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS . 



0 * 1 . 


MISS MULOCK’S WORKS. \ 


ABOUT MONEY AND OTHER THINGS. 
12rno, Cloth, 90 cents. 

A BRAVE LADY. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, 
90 cents. 

A FRENCH COUNTRY FAMILY. Trans- 
lated. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1.50. 
AGATHA’S HUSBAND. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents; 

12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

A HERO, Ac. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

A LEGACY : The Life and Remains of John 
Martin. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents; 

12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

A NOBLE LIFE. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 
AVILLION, Ac. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. 
CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE. 12mo, Cloth, 90 
cents. 

FAIR FRANCE. 12mo, Cloth, $1.60. 
HANNAH. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents ; 
12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

HIS LITTLE MOTHER, Ac. 12mo, Cloth, 90 
cents; 4to, Paper, 10 cents. 

JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 8vo, Pa- 
per, 50 cents ; 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 4to, Pa- 
per, 15 cents. 

KING ARTHUR. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; Pa- 
per, 26 cents. 


— 

MISS TOMMY, and IN A HOUSE-BOAT. 
Illustrated. 12mo, ClotB, 90 cents ; Paper, 
50 cents. 

MISTRESS AND MAID. 8vo, Paper, 30 oents 
12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

MY MOTHER AND I. Illustrated. 8vo, P. 
per, 40 cents ; 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

OLIVE. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents ; 12rao, Cloth, Il- 
lustrated, 90 cents. 

PLAIN-SPEAKING. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 
4to, Paper, 15 cents. 

SERMONS OUT OF CHURCH. 12mo, Cloth, 
99 cents. 

THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. l2mo. 
Cloth, Illustrated, 90 cents. 

STUDIES FROM LIFE. 1 2mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

THE LAUREL BUSH. Illustrated. 12mo, 
Cloth, 90 cents. 

THE OGILVIES. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents ; 12mo, 
Cloth, Illustrated, 90 cents. 

THE UNKIND WORD, Ac. 12mo, Cloth, 90 eta. 

THE WOMAN’S KINGDOM. Illustrated. 
8 vo, Paper, 60 cents ; 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

TWO MARRIAGES. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 
YOUNG MRS. JARDINE. 12mo, Cloth, 90 
cents; 4to, Paper, 10 cents. 


BOOKS FOR 

FAIRY BOOK. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 

MOTHERLESS. Translated. Illustrated. For 
Girls in their Teens. 12no, Cloth, $1.60. 

SONGS OF OUR YOUTH. Poetry and Music. 
Square 4to, Cloth, $2.50. 

THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE. Il- 
lustrated. Square 16mo, Cloth, 90 oents. 

THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE. Illustrated. 
Square 16mo, Cloth, $1.00. 

OUR YEAR. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1.00. 


CHILDREN. 

GIRLS’ BOOKS, Written or Edited by the 
Author of “John Halifax 
LITTLE SUNSHINE’S HOLIDAY. 16mo, 
Cloth, 90 cents. 

THE COUSIN FROM INDIA. 16mo, 
Cloth, 90 cents. 

TWENTY YEARS AGO 16mo, Cloth, 
90 cents. 

IS IT TRUE! 16mo, Cloth, 90 cent*. 

AN ONLY SISTER. 16mo, Cloth, 90 eta. 
MISS MOORE. 16mo, Cloth, 90 cents. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, IJnw. Yprjt, , 


by omul 


. *■»*'’ * ' .«» * 
if, potcay. A Uny q,uUtd UtaUm or Gxn*d <t\ on *cc*ii4 tfptitfk 

: : /*,v * 


• r • t 


DEDICATION. 


Years ago I used to say that, if I ever wrote a book, it 
should be dedicated to my mother. 

The possibility, then contemplated almost in jest, has 
now been fulfilled. The book is written, but all else is 
changed. I will keep my promise still. 

Let this, my first novel, which would have been a tribute 
of tenderest affection to the Living, become a solemn offer- 
ing to the holy memory of the Dead. 



■ i. .• Y 

i - 1 J ‘a! 







THE OGTLVIES 


CHAPTER I. 

She, like the hazel twig, 

Is straight and slender ; and as brown in hue 
As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than their kernels. 

Shakspeare. 

“ Katharine, Katharine — where is Katharine Ogilvie ?” 

This call resounded from the entrance-hall of an old fam- 
ily mansion, in which, between the twilight and moonlight 
of a December evening, a group of young people were as- 
sembled. 

“ Where is she ? — why, staying to adorn herself, of 
course,” said a “ young lady,” the type par excellence of 
that numerous class; being pretty-faced, pretty-spoken, and 
pretty-mannered. “Was there ever a girl of sixteen who 
did not spend two hours at the least in dressing for her 
first evening party? I know I did.” 

“ Very likely,” muttered a rather fine-looking young man 
who stood at the door. “You do the same now, Bella. 
But Katharine is not one of your sort.” 

The first speaker tossed her head. “ That is a doubtful 
compliment. Pray, Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, is it meant for your 
cousin Katharine, or your cousin Bella ?” And Miss Isa- 
bella Worsley, shaking her multitudinous ringlets, looked 
up in his face with what she doubtless thought a most be- 
witching air of espifylerie. 

But the young man was quite unmoved. He was ap- 
parently a simple soul — Mr. Hugh Ogilvie — too simple for 
such fascinations. “ I wish some of you children would go 


THE OGILVIES. 


and fetch your cousin. Uncle and aunt are quite ready ; 
and Katharine knows her father will not endure to be kept 
waiting, even by herself.” 

“ It is all your fault, cousin Hugh,” interposed one of the 
smaller fry which composed the Christmas family-party 
assembled at Summerwood Park. “ I saw Katharine stay- 
ing to tie up the flowers you sent her. I told her how 
scarce they were, and how you rode over the country all 
this morning in search of them,” continued the wucked, 
long-tongued little imp of a boy, causing Hugh to turn 
very red and walk angrily away — and consequently win- 
ning an approving glance from the elder sister of all the 
juvenile brood, Isabella Worsley. 

“ Really, Hugh, what a blessing of a cousin you must 
be !” observed the latter, following him to the foot of the 
staircase, where he stood restlessly beating his heel upon 
the stone steps. “ One quite envies Katharine in having 
you so constantly at Summerwood. Why, it is better for 
her than possessing half a dozen brothers, isn’t it, now ? 
And I dare say you find her worth a dozen of your sister 
Eleanor.” 

Hugh made no audible answer except beginning a long 
low whistle — sportsman-fashion. 

“ I declare, he is calling for Katharine as he does for Juno 
— how very flattering !” cried Isabella, laughing. “ Really, 
Hugh, this sort of behavior does not at all match with that 
elegant evening costume, which, by-the-by, I have not yet 
sufficiently admired.” 

“ I wish heartily I were out of it,” muttered Hugh. “ I 
had rather a great deal put on my shooting-jacket and go 
after wild ducks than start for this dull party at Mrs. 
Lancaster’s. Nothing should have persuaded me to it ex- 
cept — ” 

“ Except Katharine. But here she comes !” 

At this moment a young girl descended the stairs. Now, 
whatever the poets may say, there is not a more uncom- 
fortable and unprepossessing age than “sweet sixteen.” 
The character and manners are then usually alike unfolrned 


THE 0GILVIES. 


) 


— the graceful frankness of childhood is lost, and the calir 
dignity of womanhood has not yet been gained. Katha 
rine Ogilvie was exactly in this transition state, in both 
mind and person. She had outgrown the roundness of 
early youth ; and her tall thin figure, without being pos- 
itively awkward, bore a ludicrous resemblance — as the 
short, plump Miss Worsley often remarked — to a lettuce 
run to seed, or a hyacinth that will stretch out its long 
lanky leaves wflth an obstinate determination not to flower. 
This attenuated appearance was increased by the airy 
evening dress she wore — a half-mourning frock, exhibiting 
her thin neck and long arms, the slenderness of which 
caused her otherwise well-formed hands to seem somewhat 
disproportioned. Her features were regular and pleasing; 
but her dark — almost sallow — complexion prevented their 
attracting the notice which their classical form deserved. 
The girl had, however, one beauty, which, when she did 
chance to lift up her long lashes — a circumstance by no 
means frequent — was almost startling in its effect. Kath- 
arine’s eyes were magnificent; of the darkest yet most 
limpid haze. Therein lay the chief expression of her face ; 
and often, when the rest of the features were in apparent 
repose, these strange eyes were suddenly lifted up, reveal- 
ing such a world of enthusiasm, passion, and tenderness, 
that her whole form seemed lighted up into beauty. 

“ Come here, Katharine, and let us all have a look at 
you !” said Isabella, drawing her shrinking cousin under 
the light of the hall lamp. “Well, you are dressed tolera- 
bly to-night ; your hair is neat and pretty enough.” It 
was, indeed, very lovely, of a rich purple-black hue, its 
silken masses being most gracefully folded round her small 
head. “ But, Katharine, child, what makes you so pale? 
You ought to be delighted at going to this grand soiree; 
I only wish I had been invited in your stead.” 

“ So do I, too. Indeed, Bella, it would have been much 
pleasanter for me to stay at home,” said Katharine, in a 
low, timid voice, whose music was at least equal to the 
beauty of her eyes. 

-A. 2 


8 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ You little simpleton to say so ! But I don’t believe a 
word.” 

“You may believe her or not, just as you like, Miss Bella 
—nobody minds,” answered Hugh, rather angrily, as he 
drew his young cousin’s arm through his own. “ Come, 
Katharine, don’t be frightened, I’ll take care of you ; and 
we will manage to get through this formidable literary 
soiree together.” 

She clung to him with a grateful and affectionate look, 
which would certainly once more have roused Isabella’s 
acrid tongue had not Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie appeared. Aft- 
er them followed a light-footed graceful girl in deep mourn- 
ing. She carried a warm shawl, which she wrapped closely 
round Katharine. 

“There’s a good, thoughtful little Nelly,” said Hugh, 
while Katharine turned round with a quick impulse and 
kissed her. But she only said “ Good-night, dear Eleanor” 
— for her young heart had fluttered strangely throughout 
all this evening. However, there was no time to pause 
over doubts and trepidations, since her father and mother 
were already in the carriage ; and thither she was herself 
hurried by Hugh, with an anxious care and tenderness 
that still farther excited Isabella’s envious indignation. 

“It is a fine thing to be an only daughter and an heiress,” 
thought she. “ But one can easily see how the case will 
end. Hugh thinks, of course, that he may as well get the 
estate with the title ; and uncle Ogilvie will be glad enough 
to keep both in the family, even if Hugh is not quite so rich 
as Croesus. I wonder how much money old Sir James will 
leave him, though. Anyhow, it is a good match for a little 
ugly thing like Katharine. But the husband she gets will 
make matters even — for Hugh Ogilvie is a commonplace, 
stupid boor. I would not have married him for the 
world.” 

Miss W orsley’s anger had probably affected her memory, 
since she came to pay this visit to her maternal grandfather 
with the firm determination so to “ play her cards” as re- 
garded Hugh, that on her departure she might have the 


THE 0GILYIES. 


9 


certainty of one day revisiting Summerwood as its future 
mistress. 

Let us — thinking of the fearful number of her class who 
sully and degrade the pure ideal of womanhood — look 
mournfully on this girl. She had grown wise too soon- 
wise in the world’s evil sense. With her, love had been 
regarded alternately as a light jest and as a sentimental 
pretence, at an age when she could not understand its 
character and ought scarcely to have heard its name ; and 
when the time came for the full heart of womanhood to re- 
spond to the mystic, universal touch, there was no answer. 
The one holy feeling had been frittered away into a num- 
ber of small fancies, until Isabella, now fully emerged from 
her boarding-school romance, believed what her mother 
told her, that “ a girl should never fall in love till she is 
asked to marry, and then make the best match she can.” 
And until this desirable event should happen — which, at 
five-and-twenty, seemed farther than ever from her earnest 
longings — Miss Worsley amused herself by carrying on 
passing flirtations with every agreeable young man she 
met. 

But while Isabella’s vain and worldly mind was thus 
judging by its own baser motives the very different na- 
ture of Katharine Ogilvie, the latter sat calmly by Hugh’s 
side, enjoying the dreamy motion of the carriage, and not 
disposed to murmur at the silence of its occupants, which 
gave her full liberty to indulge in thought. 

“ It is very cold,” at last observed Mrs. Ogilvie, trying 
to make the most original observation she could, in order 
to rouse her husband, who was always exceedingly cross 
after a doze — a circumstance which she naturally wished 
to prevent, if possible. A “ humph” answered her obser- 
vation. 

“ Don’t you think you will get colder still if you go to 
sleep, Mr. Ogilvie ?” pursued the lady. 

“ Pray suffer me to decide that. It was very foolish of 
us to go to this party, all the way to London, on such a 
wintry night.” 


10 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ But, my dear, you know Katharine must be brought 
out some time or other — and Mrs. Lancaster’s soiree was 
such an excellent opportunity for her, since we can not 
have a ball at home on account of poor Sir James. Mrs. 
Lancaster knows all the scientific and literary world — her 
parties are most brilliant — it is a first-rate introduction for 
any young girl.” 

Poor Katharine felt her timidity come over her with 
added painfulness, and heartily wished herself on the otto- 
man at her grandfather’s feet, instead of on her way to this 
terrible ordeal. But Hugh gave her hand an encouraging 
pressure, and she felt comforted. So she listened patiently 
to her mother’s enumeration of all the celebrated people 
whom she would be sure to meet. After which the good 
lady, oppressed by her somnolent husband’s example, leaned 
her head back so as not to disarrange her elegant cap, and 
fell asleep in a few minutes. 

The carriage rolled through the unfrequented roads that 
mark the environs of the metropolis. Katharine sat watch- 
ing the light which the carriage-lamps threw as they passed 
— illumining for a moment the formal, leafless hedges, until 
every trace of rurality was lost in the purely suburban 
character of the villa-studded road. The young girl’s vis- 
ion and the most outward fold of her thoughts received all 
these things ; but her inner mind was all the while revolv- 
ing widely different matters, and chiefly this unseen world 
of society, about which she had formed various romantic 
ideas, the predominant one being that it was a brilliant, 
dazzling compound of the scenes described in Bulwer’s 
“ Godolphin,” and Mrs. Gore’s novels, passim. 

It is scarcely possible to imagine a girl more utterly ig- 
norant of the realities of life than was Katharine Ogilvie 
at sixteen. Delicate health had made her childhood soli- 
tary ; and though fortune had bestowed on her troops of 
cousin-playfellows, she had known little of any of them ex- 
cepting Hugh and his sister. She had seen nothing of so- 
ciety or of the amusements of life, for her rather elderly 
parents rarely mingled in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie 


THE OGILVIES. 


1 


were a pattern couple for individual excellence and mutual 
observance of matrimonial proprieties. United in middle 
life, their existence flowed on in a placid stream, deep, si- 
lent, untroubled ; their affection toward each other and to- 
ward their only child being rather passive than active — 
though steady, very undemonstrative. So Katharine, whom 
nature had cast in a different mould, became, as the confid- 
ing and clinging helplessness of childhood departed, more 
and more shut up within herself— looking to no other for 
amusement, seeking no sharer either in her pleasures or in 
her cares. A life like this sometimes educes strength and 
originality of character, but more often causes a morbid- 
ness of feeling which contents itself throughout existence 
with dreaming, not acting. Or if, at length, long-restrained 
emotions do break out, it is with a terrible flood that sweeps 
away all before it. 

Katharine was by no means sentimental; for the term 
implies affectation, of which no stain had ever marred her 
nature. But her whole character was imbued with the 
wildest, deepest romance : the romance which comes in- 
stinctively to a finely-constituted mind left to form its 
own ideal of what is good and true. Her solitary child- 
hood had created an imaginary world in which she lived 
and moved side by side with its inhabitants. These were 
the heroes and heroines of the books which she had read — 
a most heterogeneous mass of literature — and the beings 
who peopled her own fanciful dreams. 

One thing only was wanting to crown her romance. 
Though she had actually counted sixteen years, Katharine 
had never even fancied herself “in love” — except, perhaps, 
with “Zanoni.” A few vague day-dreams and nightly fan- 
cies had of late floated over her spirit, causing her to yearn 
for some companionship higher and nobler than any she 
had yet known — something on which she might expend 
not merely her warm home -affections, already fully be- 
stowed on her parents and on Hugh, but the love of her 
soul, the worship of her heart and intellect combined. 
This longing she had of late tried to satisfy by changing 


12 


THE OGILVIES. 


her ideal hero, on whom she had hung every possible and 
impossible perfection, for a real human being — that young 
poet whose life was itself a poem, Keats. His likeness, 
which Katharine had hung up in her room, haunted her 
perpetually; and many a time she sat watching it until 
she felt for this dead and buried poet a sensation very like 
the love of which she had read — the strange delicious se- 
cret which was to her as yet only a name. 

And thus, half a woman and half a child, Katharine 
Ogilvie was about to pass out of her ideal world, so fa- 
miliar and so dear, into the real world, of which she knew 
nothing. No wonder that she was silent and disposed to 
muse ! 

“Wake up, little cousin; what are you thinking about?” 
said Hugh, suddenly. 

Katharine started — and her reverie was broken. The 
painful consciousness that Hugh might smile at her for 
having been “ in the clouds,” as he called these fits of ab- 
straction, caused the color to rise rapidly in her cheek. 

“ What made you imagine I was thinking at all ?” 

“ Merely because you have been perfectly silent for the 
last hour. Your papa and mamma have had time to fall 
comfortably asleep, and I have grown quite weary and 
cross through not having the pleasant talk that we prom- 
ised ourselves this morning.” 

“ Dear Hugh ! it was very stupid of me.” 

“ Not at all, dear Katharine,” Hugh answered, echoing 
the adjective with an emphasis that deepened its meaning 
considerably. “Not at all — if you will now tell me what 
occupied your thoughts so much.” 

But Katharine, sincere as was her affection for her 
cousin, felt conscious that he would not understand one 
half of the fanciful ideas which had passed through her 
brain during that long interval of silence. So her reply 
was the usual compromise which people adopt in such 
cases. 

“ I was thinking of several things — amongst others, of 
Mrs. Lancaster’s party.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


13 


Hugh looked rather annoyed. “I thought you did not 
wish to go, and would much rather have been left at 
home ?” 

“ Yes, at the last, and yet all this fortnight I have been 
longing for the day. Hugh, did you ever feel what it is 
to wish for any thing, and dream of it, and wonder about 
it, until when the time came you grew positively fright- 
ened, and almost wished that something would happen to 
frustrate your first desire ?” 

“Was this what you have been feeling, Katharine ?” 

“Perhaps so — I hardly know. I enjoyed the anticipa- 
tion very much until, from thinking of all the wonderful 
people I should meet, I began to think about myself. It 
is a bad thing to think too much about one’s self, Hugh — 
is it not ?” 

Hugh assented abstractedly. It always gave him much 
more pleasure to hear Katharine talk than to talk himself; 
and besides, his conversation was rarely either rapid or 
brilliant. 

Katharine went on. 

“ It was, after all, very vain and foolish in me to fancy 
that any one I should meet to-night would notice me in 
the least. And so I have now come to the determination 
not to think about myself or my imperfections, but to en- 
joy this evening as much as possible. Tell me, what great 
people are we likely to see ?” 

“ There is the Countess of A , and Lord William 

B , and Sir Vivian C ,” said Hugh, naming a few 

of the minor lights of the aristocracy who lend their feeble 
radiance to middle-class reunions. 

“ I do not call these c great people,’ ” answered Katha- 
rine, in a tone of disappointment. “ They are not my he- 
roes and heroines. I want to see great writers, great poets, 
great painters,” she continued, with an energy that made 
Hugh open his eyes to their utmost width. 

“ Well, well, you little enthusiast, you will see plenty of 
that sort of people too.” 

“ That sort of people” repeated Katharine, in a low tone; 


14 


THE OGILVIES. 


and she shrank into herself, and was silent for five min- 
utes. A feeling of passing vexation even toward Hugh 
oppressed her, until a chance movement wafted toward 
her the perfume of her flowers — the flowers to procure 
which he had ridden for miles over the country that rainy 
morning. A trifle sways one’s feelings sometimes, and 
Katharine’s at once turned toward Hugh with an almost 
contrite acknowledgment. She sought an opportunity to 
remove any painful impression that her sudden silence 
might have given him. 

“Well, here we are almost at our journey’s end, and 
papa and mamma are still asleep. We shall have very 
little more time for our talk, Hugh ; so make haste and 
tell me what occupied your thoughts during that long hour 
of silence ?” 

“ Not now, dear Katharine — not now !” 

He spoke — at once more gently and more hurriedly than 
Hugh Ogilvie was used to speak. Katharine was about 
to repeat her question, when the carriage stopped. 


CHAPTER II. 

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, 

And in the lighted hall the guests are met. 

On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
Falls, and the dew of music more divine 
Tempers the deep emotions of the time. 

* * * * 

How many meet who never yet have met, 

To part too soon, but never to forget ; 

But life’s familiar veil was now withdrawn, 

As the world leaps before an earthquake’s dawn. 

Shelley. 

Before Katharine had time once more to grow terrified 
at the sudden realization of her dreams of the world, she 
found herself in the brilliant drawing-rooms of Mrs. Lan- 
caster — following in the wake of her stately parents, and 
clinging with desperate energy to the arm of her cousin 


THE OGILYIES. 


15 


Hugh. Her eyes, dazzled and pained by the sudden tran- 
sition from darkness to light, saw only a moving mass of 
gay attire which she was utterly unable to individualize. 
Her ear was bewildered by that scarcely subdued din of 
many voices which makes literary conversazioni in general 
a sort of polite Babel. Indeed, the young girl’s outward 
organs of observation were for the time quite dazzled ; and 
she recovered herself only on hearing her mother say, 

“Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to introduce to you my daugh- 
ter Katharine.” 

Now, ever since Mrs. Ogilvie had discovered an old 
school-fellow in the celebrated Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine 
had heard continually of the lady in question. Every one 
talked of her as a “clever woman” — “a blue” — “an extra- 
ordinary creature” — “a woman of mind;” and somehow 
the girl had pictured to herself a tall, masculine, loud-voiced 
dame. Therefore, she was agreeably surprised at seeing 
before her a lady — certainly not pretty, nor young except 
in her attire — but, nevertheless, graceful from her extreme 
smallness and delicacy of figure ; there was nothing outre 
in her appearance except a peculiar style of head-dress, 
which set off the shape of her face to much advantage. 
This face was not remarkable for an intellectual expression, 
though the features evidently perpetually struggled to at- 
tain one. In spite of her semi-tragic glances, compressed 
lips, and fixed altitudes, Mrs. Lancaster never could suc- 
ceed in appearing a genius, but was merely an agreeable- 
looking, stylish little lady. 

In that character, Katharine was not in the least afraid 
of her. She felt the light touch of the jeweled fingers, and 
listened to the blandest and best-modulated welcome that 
female lips could utter, until the girl’s prevailing senti- 
ments were those of intense relief, deep admiration, and 
undying gratitude toward Mrs. Lancaster. 

Immediately afterward, a pale young man who stood be 
hind the lady timidly and silently shook hands with Kath- 
arine’s parents, and then, to her infinite surprise, with 
herself. 

2 


16 


THE OGILVIES. 


“Who is that gentleman? I don’t know him,” said 
Katharine, in a whisper, to Hugh. “ Why did not mamma 
introduce me — and why did he not speak ?” 

“Oh ! it is only Mr. Lancaster, Mrs. Lancaster’s husband,” 
answered Hugh, with a scarcely perceptible smile. “ lie 
rarely speaks to any body, and nobody minds him at all.” 

“ How very odd !” thought Katharine : whose idea of a 
husband — when the subject did occupy her mind — was of 
some noble being to whom the wife could look up with 
reverent admiration, who was always to take the lead in 
society, she following after like a loving shadow, but still 
only a shadow, of himself. Katharine watched Mrs. Lan- 
caster as she flitted about here and there, all smiles and 
conversation, while the silent husband retreated to a cor- 
ner ; and she thought once more how very strange it was. 
She expressed this to Hugh when after great difficulty 
they at last found a seat, and talked together in that deep 
quietude which is nowhere greater than in a crowded as- 
sembly of strangers. 

But Hugh did not seem at all surprised. He had not 
known the Lancasters long, he said, but he believed they 
were a very happy couple. Mrs. Lancaster was a very 
superior woman; and perhaps that was the reason why 
she took the lead rather than her husband. 

“ My husband shall never be a man inferior to myself; I 
should not love him at all if I could not worship, reverence, 
look up to him in every thing,” said Katharine, her eye 
dilating and her cheek glowing. But when she caught 
Hugh’s look fixed upon her with intense astonishment, she 
suddenly felt conscious that she had said something wrong, 
and shrank abashed into her corner. She was not dis- 
turbed ; for Hugh did not answer a word ; but once or 
twice she fancied she heard him sigh. 

“ Ah, poor Hugh !” thought Katharine, “he imagines his 
wild cousin will never mend. And yet I only spoke what 
I thought. I must not do that any more. Perhaps my 
thoughts are foolish or wrong, since no one seems to un- 
derstand them.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


17 


And Katharine, glad as she had felt of Hugh’s society 
and protection in this gay place of desolation — for so it 
seemed to her — experienced a feeling very like relief when 
a lady near them addressed her cousin, and occupied his 
attention so that she herself could sit still and think. It 
was an amusement to her to watch the different combina- 
tions of the kaleidoscope of moving humanity which passed 
in review before her ; looking at the different individuals, 
speculating on their characters, or weaving little histories 
for each. Katharine took most interest in her own sex, 
who at least approached her idea of outward grace ; but 
the “ fine gentlemen” of a modern drawing-room did not at 
all resemble the heroes with which the romance-loving girl 
had peopled her w orld. She scarcely bestowed a second 
glance upon any of them. 

At last, while her eyes were vacantly fixed on the door, 
it opened and admitted — a gentleman. One who — in this 
instance — truly deserved the name. Katharine looked at 
him : her gaze was attracted a second time — a third — un- 
til it rested permanently on him. 

He was, in truth, a man of striking appearance. Not 
from his personal beauty, for there were many handsomer 
in the room, but from an inexpressible dignity, composure 
of manner, and grace of movement, to which his tall figure 
gave every advantage. His countenance was not disfig- 
ured by any of the modern atrocities of mustache and im- 
perial, no starched white cravat hid the outline of his chin 
and upper throat, and his dark crisped hair was thrown 
back, giving a classic beauty to the whole head. Yet its 
character was neither Greek nor Roman, but purely En- 
glish ; the lines firm, sharp, and rather marked, denoted 
one who had seen much, felt much, and is no longer young. 
But no description of features would adequately convey 
an idea of the nameless air which at once impressed the 
conviction that this man was different to other men. Even 
slight singularities of dress — usually puerile and contempt- 
ible affectations — were by him made so completely sub- 
servient to the wearer, that the most captious could not 
accuse him of conceit or eccentricity. 


18 


THE OGILYIES. 


This was he on whom Katharine’s young eyes rested the 
moment he entered the room. She watched his face with 
a vague deepening interest, feeling certain that she had 
seen it before — it seemed so familiar, yet so new. His 
form appeared at once to individualize itself from every 
other in the room; her eye followed it with a pleased con- 
sciousness that it brought sunshine wherever it moved. 
Poor Katharine ! The world may laugh as it will at “first 
impressions” — 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all — 
but there are in human nature strange and sudden im- 
pulses, which, though mysterious in their exercise, and still 
more so in their causes, are nevertheless realities. 

Katharine watched this man for a long time. Sometimes, 
when he came nearer, she listened and caught a few tones 
of his voice : they were like his face, calm, thoughtful, ex 
pressive, and they went to her heart like the music of some 
dear olden song. 

“ What are you looking at so earnestly, Katharine ?” 

Katharine had no reason to conceal her thoughts, so she 
frankly pointed out the object of her contemplation. 

“ Look at him, Hugh ! Has he not a pleasant face ?” 

Hugh could not see any such face — or w^ould not. 

“ There ! standing by the lady at the harp. I have 
watched him a long time. I feel sure I must have seen 
him somewhere before.” 

“ In the clouds, very likely,” answered her cousin, with 
a sharpness rare to his quiet manner. “You could not 
have seen him any where else, for he has but just come 
from abroad. I have seen him here once before ; but no 
one excepting my romantic little cousin ever called Lyne- 
don handsome.” 

“ Lynedon — Lynedon. Is that his name ?” 

“ Yes ; and that is all I know about him. But, Katha- 
rine — there, your eyes are wandering after him again. 
Why, you will be noticed if you look at him so much, 
even though you do think him handsome.” 

“I do not,” said Katharine, quietly; “but his face seems 


THE OGILVIES. 


19 


as if I knew it. It is pleasant to me to look at him, as it is 
to look at a picture or a statue. However, I will not do so 
if it is wrong, or, at all events, rude. I do not know the 
world so well as you, dear cousin.” 

Hugh’s countenance brightened, and he said no more. 
Meanwhile, Katharine persevered for at least five minutes 
in looking in the direction exactly opposite to Mr. Lyne- 
don. At last, casting her eyes in the mirror, she saw the 
reflection of his face as he stood silent at the opposite end 
of the room. That face in its thoughtful repose revealed 
to her the vague likeness which had at once made it seem 
familiar and dear. In character it strongly resembled the 
head of Keats, which had been her admiration for so many 
months. As the fancy struck her, Katharine’s cheek flushed, 
and a strange thrill shot through her heart. She looked at 
him again — and still the likeness seemed to increase. It 
was a pleasure so new ! — and with the aid of that friendly 
mirror surely there could be nothing wrong in thus watch- 
ing the living semblance of her poet ! So Katharine gazed 
and gazed, utterly unconscious that she was drinking in the 
first draught of that cup which is offered to every human 
lip : to some, of honey — to others, of gall. 

Lynedon still kept close to the harp, until a lady sat 
down to play and sing. Her voice was touching and 
beautiful, and its pathos hushed even the noisy murmur 
around. A foppish, affected young man at one side of the 
harp went into ecstasies of rapture. Lynedon stood on the 
other side — his figure drawn up to its utmost height and 
his arms folded, intently listening. His head was bent, 
and half in shadow ; but once Katharine thought she saw 
the lips tremble with deep feeling. She did not wonder, 
for the tears were in her own eyes. 

“ Divine, enchanting ! Miss Trevor, you sing like an 
angel,” cried the young dandy, taking out his pocket- 
handkerchief. 

Lynedon did not say a single word, but he offered his 
hand to lead the musician to her seat. She seemed a shy, 
timid creature, neither fashionable nor beautiful. As they 


20 


THE OGILYIES. 


passed, Katharine heard him say in answer to some remark 
of hers, 

“Yes, it gave me pleasure. It is a dear old song to me. 
I had a little sister who used to sing it once. She had a 
sweet voice, very like yours.” 

Katharine longed for an angel’s voice, that she might 
have sung that song. She wondered if his sister lived : 
but no, from the tone in which he spoke of her she must 
be dead. He was surely good and affectionate, since he 
loved his sister. How well she must have loved him! 
Katharine had already woven out the whole romance of 
this stranger’s life — and yet she did not even know his 
Christian name, and he had not once spoken to or even 
looked at her. Only some time after, as she was in the 
act of bidding adieu to Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine’s flowers 
fell, and Mr. Lynedon, who stood beside the hostess, stooped 
and gave them into the young girl’s hand. It was a trifling 
act of courtesy, but he did it as he did every thing else, 
more gracefully than other men. He would have done 
the same, apparently, to any woman, old or young, ugly or 
pretty. Katharine felt that he had not even looked in her 
face. She experienced no surprise or wounded vanity, for 
she never remembered herself at all. She only thought 
of him. 

“Well, it has been a pleasant evening,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, 
when they were again in the carriage. “ Do you think so, 
Hugh ?” 

Hugh did indeed ; for there was still the long quiet ride 
home, with Katharine close beside him, ready to talk over 
every thing, as she had proposed. 

“ And you, Katharine, love ; have you liked your en- 
trance into society ?” inquired the mother. 

“ Yes,” said Katharine, gently but briefly. She did not 
seem half so much disposed to talk as Hugh expected. 

“I asked Mrs. Lancaster and her husband to spend a day 
with us ; was I right, Mr. Ogilvie ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear ; ask whom you please. Mrs. Lam 
caster is a woman of very good breeding ; and besides, for 


THE OGILVIES. 


21 


an intellectual lady and a lover of antiquities, there are 
many curious and remarkable sights near Summerwood 
Park. Of course she will come ?” 

“Not just at present, as she has a friend staying there, 
a Mr. Lynedon. I did not know whether you would like 
him to be included.” 

“By all means, Mrs. Ogilvie. I happened to have a good 
deal of talk with Mr. Paul Lynedon — a clever, sensible 
young man ; has no conceit about him, like the puppies of 
our day. He is trying to get into Parliament — admires 
Sir Robert, and is particularly well read on the currency 
question. By all means invite Mr. Paul Lynedon.” 

Katharine’s ears drank in all this. Here was new mat- 
ter added to her little romance. He was about to enter 
Parliament— a noble career ! Katharine was sure he would 
rise to be a great statesman — a second Canning. And 
then, his Christian name was Paul. 

Most young girls think much of a Christian name: in- 
deed, more or less so does every body. We have all a sort 
of ideal nomenclature ; names that please us by their eu- 
phony, or else make us love them for their associations. 
Some seem suited to peculiar characters ; and when we 
meet the impersonations of them, we are fain to apply our 
fanciful ideal, saying, “ Ah ! there’s a bright-faced, clear- 
hearted Clara” — or, “This girl is surely a Mary, sweet, 
gentle Mary” — or, “ Such a one is the very beau-ideal of 
a Walter, a Henry, or an Edmund !” 

Katharine felt a painful twinge, excusable in a romantic 
damsel of sixteen, when she found that her hero was called 
Paul. 

“ Mr. Paul Lynedon coming to Summerwood,” observed 
Hugh, with the faintest shade of annoyance perceptible in 
his tone ; “ then, Katharine, you will have a splendid op- 
portunity of admiring your handsome hero — and of talking 
to him too.” 

“ A man like Mr. Lynedon would never think of talking 
to such a child as I,” answered Katharine, in a low tone. 
“And, Hugh, I believe I told you before that I do not think 


22 


THE OGILVIES. 


him handsome. There is nothing strikingly beautiful in 
his features ; indeed, I do not consider them any bettei 
than yours.” 

“Thank you,” said Hugh, good-humoredly. “Then 
what made you notice him so much?” 

“I can hardly tell, excepting that there seemed in his face 
something more than beauty — something I never saw before 
in any other. I can not describe what it was, the sensa- 
tion it gave me was so peculiar. But pleasant — yes, I think 
I had more pleasure in looking at his face than at any I ever 
saw in all my life.” 

“ Katharine, I shall be quite jealous soon.” 

“ You need not. Mr. Paul Lynedon is not my cousin, 
my old playfellow, and friend. And if he were, I think I 
should be too much afraid of him ever to feel for him the 
same affection that I bear to you and Eleanor.” 

Hugh looked joyfully in his cousin’s eyes: they were 
calm and clear. They did not droop, or turn from his. 
There was not a feeling in Katharine’s heart that she 
wished to hide. < 

“ What are you and Katharine talking about ?” said Mr. 
Ogilvie, rousing himself from one of his usual taciturn 
moods. “We can not hear a word on this side of the 
carriage, and the lamps are so dim that we can hardly see 
your faces.” 

“Never mind, my dear,” observed Mrs. Ogilvie, “young 
people generally like talking over a party, and Hugh and 
Katharine seem always to have plenty to say to one an- 
other.” And a quiet smile passed over the matron’s face, 
showing how skilled she thought herself in the womanly 
acquirement of reading hearts. And when, an hour after, 
that worthy lady and affectionate mother lay cogitating 
over the past evening, she thought with satisfaction that 
her Katherine had not seemed the least dazzled by her first 
sight of “ the world,” and appeared to care for the atten- 
tions of no one save that good, kind cousin Hugh, who 
would one day make her such an excellent husband. 

While 3 in the next chamber, Katharine was dreaming 


THE OGILVIES. 


23 


one of her wild fantastic dreams, wherein she herself was 
transformed successively into the heroine of several of her 
pet romances. And somehow, whenever she looked into 
the face of the dearly-loved dream-hero, it always changed 
to the same likeness — the deep clear eyes and wavy hair 
of Mr. Paul Lynedon. 


CHAPTER III. 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands, 
Every moment lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might, 
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. 

Tennyson. 

The mistress of Summerwood was a living homily on the 
blessings of early rising. Every morning she took her place 
before the old-fashioned silver urn exactly as the clock 
struck eight. She had done the same for some eighteen 
years, during which her fair serene countenance slowly 
settled into that of a matron of fifty-two. But it still re- 
tained its fresh, unwrinkled look, as though the years which 
had passed over it had been counted by summers only. 
And certainly, since her marriage, life had been one long 
summer to Mrs. Ogilvie. 

Her husband would rather have missed the daylight 
than her pleasant face at his breakfast-board ; and, winter 
or summer, there could not be a more cheerful sight than 
the group assembled round the early meal at Summer- 
wood. For Mr. Ogilvie would allow “no nonsense” of late 
rising ; and even his niece Isabella was forced to give up 
her fine lady airs, and descend at proper time with the 
young brothers and sisters of whom she was the unwilling 
guardian. The family circle on the morning after Mrs. 
Lancaster’s party was completed by Hugh, with his bright, 
merry “morning face,” and Eleanor, always serene, though 
over her still hung the shadow of a grief (now some months 
past), that of a mother’s loss. Katharine, usually the blithest 

B 


24 


THE OGILVIES. 


of the group, seemed on this particular day rather thought* 
fully inclined. Isabella attributed the fact to “ the effects 
of dissipation,” and laughed at her cousin for being so 
country-bred as to feel overwhelmed with fatigue by only 
one party on the same night. 

“ If you lived the life that I do, what would become of 
you, Katharine ? You would be dead in six months. You 
look half dead now.” 

“ I really do not feel so.” 

“ Then w T hy drink your coffee with such a sentimental 
air? Did you meet any of your poetical heroes among 
the great geniuses who, as Hugh says, congregate at Mrs. 
Lancaster’s ? Pray tell us whom you fell in love with last 
night.” 

This was spoken in an under tone, and with a meaning 
smile that made Katharine’s cheek flush against her will. 
Her simplicity took in solemn earnest all the careless jests 
of this young lady, whose first lessons in the art of love 
had been received at that source of all evil — a fashionable 
boarding-school. 

“ I do not understand you, Isabella,” was her hurried re- 
ply ; while Hugh darted across the table the most frown- 
ing look his good-tempered face could assume. 

“ I think, Bella, you might let Katharine eat her break- 
fast in peace for once !” he exclaimed. 

“ I beg your pardon, Hugh ; don’t quite kill me for troub- 
ling your dearly-beloved cousin with my unwarrantable 
curiosity. But, as her breakfast is nearly ended, I should 
like to hear from her a little about last night, if you will 
kindly allow her to make the exertion.” 

Hugh colored with vexation ; and Katharine, resigning 
herself to her fate, sighed out, “ Well, Bella, of what must 
I tell?” 

“ Oh, in the first place, of the dresses.” 

“ I am very sorry, but I did not notice one. Indeed, 1 
am afraid I do not care for dress as much as I ought,” con- 
tinued Katharine, in a deprecating tone. Her sensitive 
and unformed mind was ever painfully alive to ridicule ; 


THE OGILVIES. 


25 


and this weakness constantly subjected her to the influence 
of the worldly Isabella. But Eleanor Ogilvie came to her 
aid. 

“ Katharine, I will relieve Bella and turn catechist. Did 
you see any of those ‘ celebrities,’ as you call them, about 
whom you have been thinking and wondering so much all 
the week ?” 

“ Hugh pointed out several, and it was very interesting 
to watch them ; but — ” 

“ But they were not quite what you expected — is it not 
so ?” 

“ Perhaps,” said Katharine, doubtfully, as she took ad- 
vantage of a general move from table, and drew near the 
window, Eleanor following. “I wonder why it is that 
people whose books we read rarely come up to our expec- 
tations — at least, not exactly. I have heard this, and last 
night I found it out for myself. Why is it, Eleanor ?” 

Eleanor smiled. There was something peculiarly sweet 
and expressive in Eleanor Ogilvie’s smile. 

“Nay, you must not expect me to answer a question 
which involves the solving of a problem — I, who am little 
older than yourself, and have scarcely seen more of the 
world. But I imagine the reason to be this, that most 
men write out in their books their inner selves — their 
deepest and purest feelings — and we form our ideal of 
them from that. When we meet them in the world, we 
see only the outer self — perhaps but a rough and clumsy 
shell — and it often takes some time and a great deal of 
patience before we can get at the kernel.” 

“Bravo, little Nelly !” cried Hugh, coming behind his sis- 
ter, and putting his two hands on her shoulders. “Why, 
this is a speech quite d la Wychnor — the fellow himself 
might have said it.” 

“ Who is Mr. Wychnor?” asked Katharine. 

“Did you never hear Eleanor speak of him? Philip 
Wychnor was her old playfellow; and we met him again 
this autumn at Mrs. Breynton’s, when we were all staying 
there together.” 


26 


THE OGILVIES. 


“What is he like?” again inquired Katharine. 

“ I think I can best answer that,” said Eleanor, turning 
round, with the faintest rose-tint on her usually colorless 
cheek; “ Philip Wychnor is a nephew of Mrs. Breynton’s. 
He has great talents — but that is his least gift. He has the 
faculty of making every one honor and respect him, though 
he is as yet little more than a boy.” 

“A boy ! why, Nell, he is more than twenty,” interrupted 
Hugh, with one of his merriest laughs. “ Only fancy, Kath- 
arine, calling a young man — a graduate of Oxford — a boy !” 

Eleanor only smiled, with a composure which had its 
effect upon the young man, who possessed Katharine’s 
grand qualification to make a perfect character; he “loved 
his sister.” Moreover, he felt the influence of her more 
finely-constituted mind and character to a degree of which 
he was himself hardly conscious. 

“Well, he was a good fellow, this Wychnor — though 
?ather too sentimental and poetical for me. But, there is 
Aunt Ogilvie calling for Katharine. What a pity that our 
pleasant talk in the corner must end !” 

Katharine bounded away in answer to her mother’s sum- 
mons. One circumstance gave her considerable surprise, 
and yet satisfaction — that at breakfast, and after, amidst 
all the conversation about Mrs. Lancaster’s soiree, no one 
had ever mentioned Mr. Paul Lynedon. No one even 
seemed to think of him. Now, in her own reminiscences 
of the evening, both dreaming and awake, this one image 
stood pre-eminent amidst all the rest. It was very odd, 
surely. But she felt the omission a relief; for who but 
herself could comprehend her dreams ? 

“I want you to write a note to Mrs. Lancaster, my love,” 
observed her mother. “ Your papa wishes the Lancasters 
to visit us while Mr. Lynedon stays with them — he has 
taken such a fancy to the young man. Did you see him, 
Katharine ?” 

“Yes,” said Katharine — and could not find another word 
for her life. 

Her mother did not require one, since she was busy fidg« 


THE 0G1LVIES. 


27 

eting about in the writing-desk for various instruments of 
epistolary labor, the absence of which snowed how little 
versed the lady was in the art of correspondence. 

“Shall I fetch my own desk, mamma?” 

“ Ay, do, love ; you have every thing you want there, 
and I am not used to writing — especially to such clever 
people as Mrs. Lancaster.” 

This latter portion of her mother’s sentence rested pain- 
fully on Katharine’s mind during her journey to her own 
room and back. It was indeed a formidable thing to write 
to Mrs. Lancaster — and about Mr. Paul Lynedon ! Poor 
Katharine felt positively alarmed, especially when she re- 
membered that all the care of her governess and masters 
had never succeeded in making her a caligraphist, and 
that she now wrote the sorriest hand imaginable. Timidly 
did she hint this to her mother. 

“ Why, my dear child, you never cared for your hand- 
writing before ; what makes you so particular now ? I 
suppose you are afraid of Mrs. Lancaster. But never mind, 
for I once heard her say that clever people always write 
badly — and certainly her own handwriting is a specimen 
of this.” 

Katharine laughed ; but she did not say a word more of 
excuse, lest her mother should discover that there was an- 
other person’s opinion which she had thought of even be- 
fore Mrs. Lancaster’s. 

“ He will certainly see the letter — she will be sure to 
show it to him,” said Katharine to herself, when she was 
left alone to fulfill her task. And the idea that Mr. Lyne- 
don’s eyes would rest upon her letter — or, at the least, that 
he would hear it read — made the writing and composition 
seem matters of momentous importance. She changed the 
sentences, and rearranged them ; one said too much, an- 
other too little. First, the invitation appeared too warm ; 
and then it was worded in a style so coldly polite that 
Katharine felt sure a man of his dignity would never ac- 
cept it. She wrote more copies than she cared to count 
before the final decision was made. Then, when in the last 


28 


THE OGILYIES. 


carefully-indited epistle she came to his name — Mr. Paul 
Lynedon — it was written slowly, almost tremulously. She 
had said it to herself many times, until it had grown almost 
a familiar sound, hut she had never written it before. It 
was a simple arrangement of simple letters ; and yet, when 
she had completed the epistle, the one name seemed to her 
to stand out in bold relief from the rest of the page, distinct 
and clear — as the face of its owner among all other human 
faces in that motley crowd. 

Let us travel in spirit, whither Katharine’s thoughts often 
wandered that day, and accompany the letter to its desti- 
nation. If in real life this clairvoyance existed, how many 
of us would wish to employ it? And with what result? 
Perhaps to see lines — over which the full heart had poured 
itself, or stilled its beatings in a vain effort to write care- 
lessly of what it felt so much — glanced over with an idle, 
passing notice, and thrown aside ! Or, perchance, to mark: 
with almost equal pain that what we wrote as mere “words, 
words, words” of custom or of courtesy, became to the re- 
ceiver a mine of treasure, to be pored over and reconstrued 
again and again, hopefully or despondingly, with feelings 
of which we knew not, and, knowing, would only regard in 
sorrowful pity that they should be thus cast at our feet in 
vain. 

“Here is an invitation,” said Mrs. Lancaster, throwing 
down Katharine’s precious note among a heap of others. 
“ It concerns you, Lynedon ; will you read it ?” 

“Thank you — presently.” He finished his coffee, and 
then took up the letter. “ It seems a cordial invitation — 
shall you accept it ?” 

“If you are also inclined. Summerwood is a pretty 
place, I believe, with many antiquities in the neighbor- 
hood.” 

“That will just suit you,” said Lynedon, smiling, as he 
remembered the archaeological hobby which Mrs. Lancaster 
had lately mounted, and which she was now riding to death. 

“Yes, but you yourself might find some interests even 
among such quiet folk as the Ogilvies. The old father, Sir 


THE OGILVIES. 


29 


J araes, is in his dotage, and Mr. Ogilvie has considerable 
influence in the county. He might be of use in this Par- 
liamentary scheme of yours ; especially as he told me, in 
his own solemn way, how much he liked you.” 

“Liked me? Oh, yes, I remember him now. A precise, 
middle-aged specimen of the genus ‘ country gentleman’ — 
with a quiet, mild -looking lady always creeping after 
him. His wife, probably ?” He looked at the signature. 
“ 4 Katharine Ogilvie’ — a pretty name, very ; it is hers, I 
suppose ?” 

“No, the note is from their daughter. You saw her too 
the other night — a little brown -complexioned girl, who 
dropped her flowers, and you gave them to ber.” 

“ I really do not remember the fact,” said Paul Lynedon, 
shaking back his beautiful hair. '“Was she pretty ? Really, 
my dear Mrs. Lancaster, you fill your house so with beauty 
that one is perplexed with abundance. But for this visit 
— I am quite at your service, you know, invariably.” 

“Then it is agreed upon. Julian, my love, put it down 
in my visiting-book, that we may not forget.” Mr. Lan- 
caster did as he was bidden, and his wife and Mr. Lynedon 
went on with their conversation, during which the latter — 
who had a habit of always playing with something while 
he was talking — twisted Katharine’s note into every con- 
ceivable shape, finally tearing it into small diamonds, and 
then again into triangles. 

Poor Katharine ! And yet in the wildness and self-for- 
getfulness of her dream she might not have thought it an 
unworthy destiny for her letter. Had it not been torn in 
pieces by Paul Lynedon’s very own fingers ! 

With Mrs. Lancaster’s acceptance came one from Mr. 
Lynedon himself, in a few courteous words, which won the 
marked approbation of the formal Mr. Ogilvie. 

“ A proper, gentleman-like note. Mr. Lynedon is, as I 
thought, very superior to the young men of the present 
day.” His young daughter’s eyes brightened at the 
words. It was so pleasant to hear her hero praised ! 

“ And read what Mrs. Lancaster says of him,” observed 


30 


THE OGILVIES. 


Mrs. Ogilvie, as she handed the lady’s epistle to her hus 
band. 

Mr. Ogilvie looked, shook his head, and passed the note 
on to his daughter. “ Read it, Katharine, I never could 
make out Mrs. Lancaster’s hand.” 

Katharine read with a voice wonderfully steady, consid- 
ering how her little heart fluttered all the time. “ ‘I thank 
you for including my friend, Mr. Lynedon, in your invita- 
tion ; it will give me pleasure to introduce to your circle 
one whom you will, I trust, esteem as I do. He is a man 
whose talents will one day raise him very high in the world. 
He has the minor advantages of a good social position, and, 
I believe, an excellent heart ; but these are little compared 
to his highest possession — a commanding and powerful 
mind.’ ” 

“ Is Mrs. Lancaster quite right there ?” said Eleanor, lift- 
ing up her soft quiet eyes from her work. “ She seems to 
think of Mr. Lynedon’s intellect alone, and to regard no 
other qualities. Now, he may be a clever man — ” 

“He may be — he is!” cried Katharine, energetically. 
“ He w r ill be one of the great men of the age.” Then see- 
ing that, as usual, her sudden burst of enthusiasm met w T ith 
but a freezing reception, she grew hot and cold, and heartily 
wished she could run away. 

“ Really, Katharine, that is a very positive declaration 
to be made by a child like you,” said her father ; “ and, 
besides, what opportunity can you have had of judg- 
ing of Mr. Paul Lynedon’s intellect ? Did he speak to 
you ?” 

“Oh no ! but I heard him talk to others ; that w r as much 
better than if he had spoken to me. I liked very much to 
listen to him ; I did not know it was wrong.” 

“ By no means, my love,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “ A taste 
for refined conversation is always becoming in a lady ; and 
when you grow up, and are aware of the position which 
you hold in the world, I hope you will always have clever 
men and women in your society. But still, as a child, you 
should not express quite so decided an opinion — at least 


THE OGILVIES. 


31 


not in public. Here, with only your papa, myself, and 
Eleanor, it signifies little.” 

Katharine did not at all understand why a right opin- 
ion was not right to be expressed at all times and in all 
places ; prudence, reserve, and conventionalism being quite 
unknown in her young life’s exquisite Utopia. But she 
said nothing, for she always found that arguing on the 
subject did not avail in the slightest degree. Her father 
never gave reasons, but merely repeated his opinions in a 
tone gradually more and more authoritative. The girl’s 
only chance of finding out truth lay in pondering over 
every thing she saw and heard in the depths of her own 
heart, and thus struggling toward a conclusion. But with 
the wisest of us this internal course of education is often 
at first groping through dark ways. Our minds, not only 
in their powers of acquiring knowledge, but in their per- 
ceptive and reflective faculties, need a guiding hand as 
well as our bodies. We must be led a while before we 
have strength to walk alone. 

Katharine Ogilvie had no one to direct her — not one 
living soul. She was ever looking toward the light, and 
in vain. Each glimmering taper she mistook for the full- 
ness of day. Perhaps it was this intense yearning for 
something whereon to rest — some one from whom to learn 
wisdom, excellence, truth — who would take her restless, 
unformed life into his hands, and become at once its law, 
its guide, its glory, and its delight — perhaps it was this 
which made her cling with such sudden vehemence to that 
ideal which she thought she saw in Paul Lynedon. It was 
not that, according to the rule of young misses of her age, 
she “fell in love.” Katharine would have started with in- 
stinctive delicacy had the expression met her ear or the 
thought entered her mind. Love had as yet little place 
in her world — except as something that was to come one 
clay, as a vague sentiment, full of poetry, and carrying with 
it a mysterious charm. Her feeling toward Paul Lynedon 
was somewhat akin to what she experienced toward her 
pet heroes in romances or her favorite poets — an apprecia* 
3 


32 


THE OGILVIES. 


tive worship, drawn forth by all that was in them of noble 
and beautiful — 

A devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow. 

Of “ falling in love” with or marrying Paul Lynedon she 
no more thought than of uniting herself in affectionate 
earthly ties to an angel who guided some “ bright partic- 
ular star.” 

Yet, in spite of all this child-like unconsciousness of the 
real nature of the life-phase which was opening upon her, 
it was strange how much her vague interest in her hero 
grew during the few days that intervened between the ac- 
ceptance of the invitation and its fulfillment. But she 
kept her thoughts closely locked up in her own heart, 
which, as we have said, was indeed a reserve neither 
strange nor new to her. 

When, a few days after, the departure of the Worsley 
tribe left Katharine alone with her two cousins, Hugh and 
Eleanor, she felt the restraint a little removed. But still, 
though she loved them both sincerely, neither they nor 
any human being had ever passed the circle of the young 
girl’s inner world. Hugh could not — it was beyond his 
power ; and Eleanor, detained for years by the sick couch 
of her lost mother, had scarcely visited Summerwood. 
Thus not even she had ever won from Katharine’s ex- 
treme shyness that friendship and confidence which mere 
ties of kindred can never command. 

Therefore no hand had yet lifted more than the outer 
fold of this young heart, trembling, bursting, and thrilling 
with its full, rich life, and ready at the first sun-gleam to 
open and pour forth its whole awakened being in a per- 
fume — at once the purest and most passionate form of that 
essence which we call Love. 

On a girl like this, calmer hearts and wiser heads may 
look with mingled pity and blame. And yet not so — for 
God never made a more innocent creature than Katharine 
Ogilvie. 


THE OGILVIES. 


33 


CHAPTER IV. 

Like to a good old age released from care. 

Journeying in long serenity away, 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life, like thee, midst bowers and brooks, 

And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks 
And murmur of kind voices ever nigh. — Bryant. 

Children ought to consider themselves in the house of their father as In 
a temple where nature has placed them, and of which she has made them 
the priests and the ministers, that they might continually employ them- 
selves in the worship of those deities who gave them being. — Hierocles. 

Mrs. Lancaster’s expected three days’ visit necessitate 1 
considerable preparation within the quiet precincts of Sum- 
merwood, and Katharine w T as deputed to stay as much as 
possible by her grandfather’s side, in order to amuse him, 
and keep from him the knowledge of any domestic revolu- 
tions. This was rather pleasant to the young girl than 
otherwise; for she was a great favorite with Sir James, 
and returned his affection by a watchful love above that 
of most pet grandchildren. Besides, the office gave her 
more opportunities of indulging in those fits of dreaminess 
which now more than ever became her delight. 

Every morning Hugh looked in upon his grandfather’s 
study. It was called so still, though now this scene of 
youthful labor had been transformed into the quiet, luxu- 
rious asylum of feeble old age. Hugh, as he came with 
his guns or his fishing-rods, had often glanced half-con- 
temptuously at the various oddities which decorated the 
chamber of the old politician — ponderous tomes, in cen- 
tury-old bindings — dusty files of newspapers, which chron- 
icled the speeches of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, possibly with 
the announcement that the orator was “ left speaking.” 
And so he yet continued to speak in the mind and mem- 
ory of Sir James Ogilvie, who by relics so carefully pre- 


34 


THE OGILYIES. 


served was thus enabled to blend the past and the present. 
Every morning, when he had listlessly heard the last night’s 
speeches in the Times — listening perhaps more to the ech- 
oes of his pet granddaughter’s young voice than to the elo- 
quence of Macaulay or of Peel — he would make Katharine 
turn over the old file of newspapers and read the daily 
chronicle of fifty years ago. Thus events which had grown 
dim even in historical recollection acquired the freshness 
of yesterday ; and great men, sharing in the resuscitation, 
spoke, not from their tombs, but from their old haunts in 
palace and in senate. To the old man — the last relic of a 
departed age — this past was a reality; and the stirring, 
teeming present a mere shadow — less than a dream. 

Katharine never laughed at these vagaries. They were 
to her strangely sacred, and her fanciful mind cast a poetry 
over all. 

“ Still busy with those yellow old pamphlets,” said Hugh, 
putting in his head. A very cheerful face it was, glowing 
with health and good-temper, a fur cap sitting jauntily on 
the thick brown curls. “ Katharine ! w r ill you never have 
done these readings? — at Warren Hastings still, I see.” 

Katharine knitted her brows and laid her finger on her 
lips as a sign to stop her cousin’s thoughtless speech. She 
looked much prettier in her high, close morning-dress than 
in the ball costume she wore when first described ; it hid 
her thinness, and left to her girlish figure its natural slen- 
der and airy grace. She sat on a footstool, leaning against 
her grandfather’s arm-chair, with pamphlets and papers all 
scattered around. Sir James, a little, spare, withered old 
man, whose sole remnant of life seemed to exist in his 
bright restless eyes, leaned back in abstraction so perfect 
that he only noticed Hugh’s entrance by the cessation of 
the reading. 

“ Go on, Katharine,” he said, in the querulous tone of ex- 
treme old age ; “ why did you stop in the middle of that 
fine sentence of Mr. Burke’s ?” 

“Hugh has just come in to say good morning, dear 
grandfather.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


35 


“ Hugh — what, Sir Hugh Abercorabie ! I am really hon- 
ored.” 

Hugh could not help laughing; at which Sir James turned 
sharply round, and, as he recognized his grandson, his keen, 
glittering eyes wore an expression of annoyance. 

“You are exceedingly rude, sir! Go away, and do not 
interrupt us again.” 

“ V ery well, grandfather. I only came to say how d’ye 
do to you, and to have a word with my little cousin here. 
Katharine,” he continued, lowering his voice, “ I met your 
mamma on the stairs, and she desired me to say that you 
must try to make Sir James understand about these vis- 
itors, the Lancasters — you know they come to-morrow, 
more’s the pity.” And Hugh’s face grew clouded, while 
Katharine’s brightened considerably. 

“ Mamma told him yesterday — I heard her.” 

“ Ay, but he did not seem to make it out clearly, and was 
rather cross. Now you can persuade grandfather to any 
thing, and I don’t wonder at it,” continued Hugh, looking 
fondly in her face as she stood in the window, whither he 
had drawn her aside. 

“Very well, I’ll try; and now run away, and good suc- 
cess to your skating, which I see is to be your amusement 
to-day.” 

“ But, Katharine, I shall be so dull alone. Will nobody 
come and see me skate this fine morning ?” 

“ How vain you are, cousin Hugh,” laughed Katharine. 
“But it will soon be grandpapa’s lunch-time, and then I 
shall be at liberty, and will come to the pond. So good-by 
for a little.” 

“Good-by, and mind you come, Katharine.” And, as 
Hugh departed, his cousin heard him whistling all the way 
down the staircase, “ My love she’s but a lassie yet” — his 
favorite tune. 

“ How tiresome that boy is,” said the old man. Katha- 
rine did not answer, but again took her place and began to 
read. Sir James tried to compose himself to listen, but the 
thread was broken, and would not reunite. Besides, the 


36 


THE OGILVIES. 


interruption had made her own thoughts wander, and she 
read on mechanically, so that her voice took a monotonous 
tone. Her grandfather nodded over the very exordium of 
Warren Hastings’s defense, and at last pronounced that it 
seemed not quite so interesting as it was at first; so he 
thought they had read enough for to-day. Katharine felt 
really glad ; she put by all the books and papers with alac- 
rity, and took her place again at her grandfather’s feet. 

Now was the time for introducing the subject committed 
to her care. There could hardly be a more favorable mo- 
ment, for she had got fast hold of her grandfather’s thin, 
yellow, withered fingers, and was playing with the mag- 
nificent rings- which still daily adorned them. Nothing 
contributed so much to the old baronet’s good-humor as to 
have his rings admired, and he began to tell Katharine, for 
the hundredth time, how one had been a bequest of Lord 
Chatham’s, and how another, a magnificent diamond, had 
been placed on his finger by King George the Third, with 
his own royal and friendly hand. The young girl listened 
patiently, and with the interest that affection always taught 
her to assume. Then taking advantage of a pause, she ob- 
served, 

“ I think, grandpapa, you, who are so fond of antique 
rings, will like to see one that Mrs. Lancaster wears. I 
will ask her to show it you when she comes to-morrow.” 

“ Who comes to-morrow, child ? Who is Mrs. Lancas- 
ter?” 

“ A very clever, agreeable woman. Don’t you remem- 
ber that mamma invited her to spend a few days here — 
she, and her husband, and a friend of theirs, Mr. Lynedon ?” 

“ Lynedon — Lynedon. Ah ! I remember him well. Mr. 
— no, he was afterward made Viscount Lynedon, of Lyne- 
don. A clever speaker — a perfect gentleman. He and I 
were both presented at the king’s first levee. I shall be 
delighted to see Lord Lynedon.” 

“ I do not think this is the gentleman you mean, grand- 
papa,” said Katharine, meekly, while the faintest shadow 
of a smile hovered over her lips. “ He is not Viscount, only 


THE OGILVIES. 


37 


Mr. Lynedon — Paul Lynedon ; but he may be related to 
your old friend.” 

“Ah ! — yes, yes — just so,” repeated Sir James, his look 
of disappointment brightening. “ Of course he is ! Let 
me see ; the Lynedons were a large family. There was a 
second brother, and his name was a Scripture one — Philip, 
or Stephen, or Paul. Yes, yes ; it must be Paul, and this 
is he. Right, Katharine.” 

Katharine hardly knew what to answer. 

“I shall be delighted — honored — to receive Mr. Paul 
Lynedon at Summerwood,” continued the old baronet. “ I 
well remember Lord Lynedon — a fine, tall, noble-looking 
man. I wonder if his brother is like him. Describe Mr. 
Paul Lynedon, Katharine.” 

“ I am afraid you are still a little mistaken, dear grand 
papa,” said the girl, caressingly. “This Mr. Lynedon is 
quite a young man, while your friend must be — ” 

“ Eh ! eh ! Katharine ; what are you saying ?” sharply 
asked Sir James. “I am not so very old, am I? Let me 
see ; it is since then only twenty — forty — fifty years ; ah ! 
fifty years, fifty years,” repeated he, counting on his trem- 
bling fingers. “ Yes, child, you are right ; it can not be 
the same ; he must have been dead long ago. I was a 
youth then, and he a man of forty. Yes, yes, all are gone ; 
there is nobody left but me.” And the old man fell back 
in his chair. 

Katharine leaned her rosy cheek against his withered 
and wrinkled one, saying gently, “ Dear grandpapa, don’t 
talk so. What does it matter being old when you know 
we all love you. And though this gentleman is not the 
friend you knew, I am sure you will like him very much. 
Papa does. And you know he may be one of your Lyne- 
dons after all, and able to talk to you about your old 
friends.” 

“ Ah ! well, little Katharine, you may be right. And it 
is worth being eighty years of age to find one’s self grand- 
father to a little coaxing, loving, smiling thing like you.” 

The old man laughed, but there were tears in his eyes; 


38 


THE OGILYIES. 


and Katharine hastened to beguile them away by all the 
playful wiles of which she was mistress. By the time the 
arrival of lunch set her free, all Sir James’s equanimity was 
restored. He even remembered that he had been rather 
hasty toward Hugh, and sent a message intended to be 
propitiatory, challenging his grandson to an hour’s back- 
gammon in the study after dinner. Moreover, he made 
many inquiries concerning the way in which Katharine in- 
tended to pass the rest of the day ; and learning that she 
was going to watch Hugh’s skating, he delayed her for full 
five minutes with a circumstantial account of various re- 
markable frosts that had happened in the days of his youth, 
and of what his nurse had told him of the fair that was held 
on the Thames in the winter of 1 713. “ But that, my dear, 
was before my time, you know.” 

“ And, grandpapa,” whispered Katharine, when she had 
listened patiently to all, “ you will think of the visitors 
coming to-morrow, and be sure to like Mr. Paul Lynedon ?” 

“ Mr. Paul Lynedon ! Oh, I remember now,” answered 
the old man, making an effort to collect his wandering 
ideas. “ Yes, yes — the Viscount’s son. Of course, Katha- 
rine, I shall be delighted to see him. You must not forget 
to tell him so.” 

Katharine made no attempt to explain the matter fur- 
ther, satisfied that her grandfather’s mind was properly in- 
clined to courtesy and kindly feeling. She went away per- 
fectly content with the duty so well fulfilled, not reflecting 
that in their conversation she had entirely forgotten all 
that was to have been said about Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster. 


THE OGILVIES. 


3 ( J 


CHAPTER V. 

In thee 

Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 

Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer, in one shrine 
Thought and motion mingle. 

* * * 

They were modulated so 
To an unheard melody 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other, mellow, deep 
— Who may express thee, Eleanore? 

Tennyson. 

Though Katharine had been busy all the morning, aid- 
ing her mother in the various cares of the mistress of Sum- 
merwood Park, still, when the time approached for the ar- 
rival of the guests, she did not feel inclined to rest. Hugh 
had taken himself off for the day on a shooting excursion ; 
Eleanor was occupied in her own room; and when all was 
prepared for the visitors, Katharine had no resource but to 
wander about the house. She did so, roaming from room 
to room with a vague restlessness that would not pass 
away. Every five minutes she went to the hall-window 
and listened for the sound of carriage-wheels; then she 
pondered and speculated about the Lancasters, ransacking 
her memory for all that she had ever heard about them, 
and wondering if Mrs. Lancaster would seem as agreeable 
as the other night. Wondering, too, if one always liked 
people as well the second time of meeting as the first. 
And if Mr. Lynedon — She stood a long time before that 
favorite head of Keats, thinking less of it than of Mr. Lyne- 
don. 

The quick-coming twilight of winter drew nigh, and the 
guests had not arrived. Katharine’s pleasurable anticipa- 


40 


THE OGILVIES. 


tions faded a little, and she felt vexed at herself for having 
wasted so much time in thinking about these new acquaint- 
ances. Conscience-smitten for the little notice she had 
taken of her cousin during that day, she proceeded to Ele- 
anor’s room, and finding it empty, followed her into the 
garden. 

Eleanor sat quietly in the conservatory, her favorite place 
of study. A book lay on her lap>, but she was hardly read- 
ing ; her eyes wandered as her thoughts were doing. Ele- 
anor, like her cousin, was still at that period of life when 
dreaming is so pleasant. 

There can hardly be a better opportunity than the pres- 
ent to sketch the personal likeness of Eleanor Ogilvie. It 
shall not be done in rose-colors, adorned with similes taken 
from flowers, shells, sky, earth, and air, for true beauty is 
independent of all these. Eleanor had no angel’s face, only 
a woman’s ; sweet, fair, and mild as a woman’s should be. 
Her beautiful soul shone through it, and therefore it became 
itself beautiful. Not that it was without a certain grace 
of form, but still that quality was subservient to the higher 
one, of expression, without which, features as perfect as the 
sculptor’s chisel can create are more soulless than the mar- 
ble itself. Eleanor’s countenance might have been passed 
over as merely “ rather pretty,” except for the inexpressi- 
ble charm cast over it by each varying emotion of her 
mind. After all, the truest beauty is not that which sud- 
denly dazzles and fascinates, but that which steals upon us 
insensibly. Let us each call up to memory the faces that 
have been most pleasant to us — those that we have loved 
best to look upon, that now rise most vividly before us in 
solitude, and oftenest haunt our slumbers — and we shall 
usually find them not the most perfect in form, but the 
sweetest in expression. Yet this generalizing is idle. Ev- 
ery human mind has its own ideal of beauty, and almost 
always this ideal is based upon some individual reality. 
Therefore we will leave Eleanor Ogilvie’s face in that dim 
mystery out of which each can create the image he loves 
best. 


THE OGILVIES. 


41 


Katharine, even, was struck by it. The contrast was 
great between her own restless movements and her cousin’s 
perfect repose. “ Why, Eleanor, how quiet you are here, 
when all the house is full of hurry and expectation ! You 
seem almost to have forgotten that the Lancasters are 
coming.” 

“ Oh no, for you see I am already dressed for dinner.” 

“ So you are ; and how w’ell you look, with your high 
black dress and your smooth fair hair. You are quite a 
picture !” And, removing her cousin’s fur wrappings, she 
regarded her with a sincere admiration, almost childish in 
its demonstration. “ I wonder what he — that is, Mrs. Lan- 
caster — will think of you ?” 

“You forget, Katharine, that I am not a stranger; she 
has seen me before. Hugh and I spent one evening with 
her when we were in town last year.” 

“ And how did you like her ? and is not her house the 
most charming place in the world ?” cried Katharine. 

“ That is rather going into extremes. But she seemed 
pleasing and gracious to every body, and I met many 
agreeable people at her house that night.” 

“Mr. Paul Lynedon?” inquired Katharine, rather hesi- 
tatingly ; “ was he there ?” 

Eleanor could hardly help smiling. “ Is Mr. Paul Lyne- 
don, then, the only agreeable person in the world? Well, 
I am not quite sure, but I believe that he was of the party.” 

“ Why did you not tell us so the other day ?” 

“ I really quite forgot it at the time.” 

Amazing, thought Katharine, that she should not be quite 
certain whether she had met Mr. Lynedon, or, having met 
him, could ever forget the fact. In her own mind, Katha- 
rine set down her cousin as a girl of very little discrimina- 
tion. But she did not pursue the conversation, for Eleanor, 
closing her book, prepared to return to the house. 

“ Let us take one turn before we go in, Katharine. There 
will be plenty of time, for now the Lancasters will probably 
not be here until dinner. Tell me what you have been 
doing all day ?” 


42 


THE OGILVIES. 


“Following mamma, and delivering messages to cook 
and housemaids, until my poor brain is quite bewildered. 
Indeed, I never could take an interest in such things ; I 
wish mamma would leave me alone, and not try to make a 
sensible woman of me. I had much rather be with grand- 
papa, and hear him talk about public matters, and read the 
speeches in the newspaper. Eleanor, I was never born for 
this dull, quiet life; I want to do something — to be some- 
thing.” 

“To be what, dear Katharine?” said Eleanor, to whom 
this confidence was new ; but it burst from the girl’s lips 
under shelter of the twilight, and in consequence of the 
restlessness of her mind. 

“ I hardly know what, exactly ; but I think I should like 
to be in Mrs. Lancaster’s position — clever, with plenty of 
society, able to write, speak, and think, just as I liked ; quite 
independent of every body.” 

“I do not think there is, or was, any individual in this 
world — certainly no woman — of whom one could say that 
she was ‘quite independent of every body.’ Nay, even 
were it possible, I doubt if such a life would be a happy 
one ; and, what is still more, if it would be useful and full 
of good to others, which is the highest happiness of all.” 

“Eleanor,” said Katharine, looking fixedly in her face, 
“ you reason where I only feel.” 

“ Do you think I never feel, dear ?” answered Eleanor, 
while her own peculiar moonlight smile cast a grave sweet- 
ness over her countenance. “But we will talk of these 
things another time. I am so glad we have begun to talk 
of them. Those are rarely very close friends who keep 
shut-up corners in their hearts. You must let me peep into 
a few of yours, my little cousin.” 

“Suppose you find nothing but cobwebs and dust there?” 
said Katharine, laughing. 

“I will sweep them all away with a little broom I keep 
by me for the purpose,” returned Eleanor, in the same 
strain. 

“What is it?” 


THE OGILVIE& 


43 


11 It is made of a flowering plant, that grows in every 
quiet dell throughout the world, and which you may often 
And when you least look for it. It is gathered in the fresh 
sunshine of Hope, and tied together with a ground-creeper 
called Patience ; which, though as slender as a thread, binds 
all together with the strength of an iron chain. I would 
engage to brighten up the most unsightly heart-chambers 
with this broom of mine. Now, what is it made of?” 

“ I guess, dear Nelly, I guess,” cried Katharine, clapping 
her hands with that sudden child-like ebullition of pleasure 
which was natural to her ; and, both laughing merrily, with 
a brightness in their eyes, and a glow on their cheeks, the 
two girls entered the open hall-door. Bonnets in hand, 
and shawls carelessly dangling, they passed into the draw- 
ing-room. 

There, talking to Mr. Ogilvie, and having evidently just 
arrived, stood the Lancasters and Mr. Paul Lynedon ! 


CHAPTER VI. 

A woman’s love is essentially lonely, and spiritual in its nature. It is 
the heathenism of the heart : she has herself created the glory and beauty 
with which the idol of her altar stands invested. — L. E. L. 

Theke was no retreat for Katharine — no rescue from the 
suddenness of this first interview, which, when in perspect- 
ive, she had viewed in every phase of probability, fancying 
all she should do and say, and all they might do and say, 
in a mental rehearsal, which she supposed included every 
possible chance. But the momentous event had presented 
itself in a light quite unforeseen, and Katharine’s only re- 
source was to shrink behind her cousin as much as possible. 
Eleanor advanced in her usual composed manner to Mrs. 
Lancaster. 

“ My dear Miss Ogilvie, I am delighted to see you,” said 
the lady, with her customary demonstration of cordiality 
— at least the amount of it which was consistent with 


44 


THE OGILVIES. 


gracefulness of deportment. “Julian, here is your young 
favorite. Mr. Lynedon, allow me to present you to — ” 

“ Miss Katharine Ogilvie, I believe,” said Paul Lynedon, 
bowing over Eleanor’s hand. 

“No, no, I really beg pardon,” cried Mrs. Lancaster, as 
Katharine’s shrinking, blushing countenance met her eye. 
“ This is the real fair one, the right Katharine. I must apol- 
ogize for my short sight. My dearest Miss Ogilvie,” taking 
Katharine’s hand, “ allow me to thank you for your charm- 
ing note, and to present to you my friend Mr. Lynedon.” 

Paul Lynedon was a perfect gentleman. No passing 
blunder ever altered his composure or courtesy. His bend 
was as graceful over Katharine’s timidly-offered hand as it 
had been over her cousin’s. His compliments, addressed 
to the shy, awkward girl, were exactly as courteous as 
those of which Eleanor had been the recipient. Yet in 
this he was not insincere. The polish of his manners orig- 
inated in the only quality which makes a true gentleman, 
and which no formal, Chesterfield-like education can bestow 
— a natural refinement, and an instinctive wish to give 
pleasure to others. This true urbanity never fails in its 
results ; nor was it unsuccessful now. In a few moments 
Katharine became sufficiently reassured to lift her eyes 
from the carpet to Paul Lynedon’s face. It was a little 
different from the one which had haunted her memory 
during this long ten days, for imagination is rarely quite 
faithful at first. But still it wore the same inexpressible 
charm. She dared look at it now, for the eyes were turned 
away — following Eleanor. 

Thither Mrs. Lancaster’s also followed. “I am really 
ashamed to have mistaken you for the moment, my dear 
young friend,” said that lady, the universality of whose 
friendship was its chief recommendation. 

“ It is some time since you saw me,” answered Eleanor’s 
quiet voice, “ and you must see so many people.” 

“True — true, my dear. You have been quite well since 
I met you last, and that charming young man, your brother 
—Peter?” 


THE OGILVIES. 


45 


“ Hugh,” said Eleanor, smiling. “ He is quite well, I be- 
lieve ; he made one of your guests the other day.” 

“ Of course — oh yes !” And Mrs. Lancaster’s lips formed 
themselves into a fixed smile, while her eyes wandered ab- 
stractedly about the room. She had in perfection the fac- 
ulty which is so useful in general society, that of being 
able to train the features into the appearance of polite at- 
tention, attended by just so much of the mind as will suffice 
for suitable answers. 

Mr. Paul Lynedon was not quite so much au fait at this ; 
he had not lived so long in the world by some dozen years 
as his excellent friend Mrs. Lancaster. Therefore, in the 
conversation which he tried hard to commence with Kath- 
arine, he did not succeed in advancing one step beyond the 
weather, and the distance from London to Summerwood. 
Perhaps Katharine’s own shyness had something to do 
with this ; for, though it had been her delight to listen 
when Paul Lynedon talked to others, the tones of his mu- 
sical voice, addressed to herself, now oppressed her with a 
painful timidity. It was positively a relief when Eleanor 
proposed an adjournment. 

When the two cousins re-entered the drawing-room, 
there was still the same striking contrast between them — 
Eleanor so calm and self-possessed; Katharine trembling 
with nervous agitation. 

The little party were grouped, as was natural they 
should be — Mrs. Lancaster conversing with Mr. Ogilvie, 
while a feeling of hostess -like benignity prompted Mrs. 
Ogilvie to extract from the taciturn Mr. Lancaster small 
fragments of conversation relative to the weather, their 
journey, the country in general, and Summerwood in par- 
ticular. Paul Lynedon sat aloof, carelessly turning over 
the leaves of a book, occasionally joining in with a passing 
remark. 

On the entrance of the t wo girls he rose and displayed 
the customary courtesies, though in a manner enviably 
easy and quiet. There is nothing more annoying and un- 
comfortable to a lady than to enter a room and see every 


46 


THE OGILVIES. 


gentleman jump up armed with a chair, ready to perform 
acts of officious chivalry, which place the recipient in a 
position infinitely more unpleasant than if she were entire- 
ly neglected. 

Paul Lynedon began with a commonplace — and, reader, 
almost all things in life, pleasant friendships, deep, earnest, 
life-long loves, begin with the same. He made the remark 
that the view from the hall-windows was — that is, would 
be in daylight, and in summer time — a very beautiful one ; 
and then he could not help smiling as he thought what a 
stupid and involved observation he had made. 

That very circumstance broke the ice. 

“ You seem to have a wonderful perception of the beau- 
tiful, Mr. Lynedon,” said Eleanor. “ You see it ‘ with your 
mind’s eye,’ which pierces through the darkness of a win- 
ter night, closed shutters, curtains and all.” And the good- 
tempered smile which accompanied her words, fairly re- 
moving their sting, caused Paul Lynedon to laugh merrily. 

“ You have saved me, Miss Eleanor — given me something 
to talk about, and preserved me from committing myself 
any more, by unfolding to me a few points in the charac- 
ter of the lady with whom I have the pleasure of convers- 
ing.” 

“ What, can you find out my character from that one 
speech ?” said Eleanor, rather amused. 

“A little of it.” 

“ Tell me how.” 

“ Why, in the first place, you have Shakspeare on your 
tongue, and consequently in your heart. One rarely quotes 
where one does not love the author; therefore you love 
Shakspeare, and, as a necessary result, all true poetry. 
Then my remark — commonplace, forced, and to a certain 
degree insincere, as I acknowledge it to be — made you 
smile; therefore you have a quick perception of what is 
inclined to falseness and affectation, while your condemna- 
tion of it is good-tempered and lenient. Have I explained 
myself, even though I prove my own accuser?” 

“ Perfectly, though you are rather too harsh upon your- 


THE ogilyies. 


47 


self,” answered Eleanor. “ What do you say to this sketch 
of me, Katharine ?” 

“If Mr. Lynedon means that you are always true in 
yourself, and always kind toward others, he is quite right,” 
said Katharine, affectionately. 

Paul Lynedon directed toward the warm-hearted speaker 
a look of more curiosity than he had yet thought fit to be- 
stow upon the “ little school-girl.” 

“ Thank you, Miss Ogilvie ; that is, I thank you for prov- 
ing my observations correct. A harmless vanity; yet I 
fancy they needed no proof but the mere presence of you* 
fair cousin.” And, as he bowed, his eyes rested on Eleanor’s 
face admiringly. 

No added color came to that clear cheek ; the smile was 
tranquil and self-possessed, and Paul Lynedon looked al- 
most vexed. The little group were again sinking into 
small-talk, when a servant came to the door with “ Sir 
James Ogilvie’s compliments, and he was impatient for the 
honor of receiving Mr. Paul Lynedon.” 

“ My father is very old, and has a few peculiarities ; will 
it be agreeable to you to humor him with a visit now?” 
said Mr. Ogilvie. 

“ I have told Mr. Lynedon all about Sir James,” observed 
Mrs. Lancaster. “ Pray go — you will be so much amused 
with his oddities,” she continued, in a low tone. It was 
meant for an aside, but it jarred painfully on Katharine’s 
ear, which was ever open to all that was said by, or ad- 
dressed to, Paul Lynedon. 

But the young man’s only answer was directed to Mr. 
Ogilvie. 

“Pray do not talk about my ‘humoring’ Sir James; it 
is to me always not only a duty, but a pleasure, to show 
respect to old age.” 

Katharine’s heart beat with delight, and her bright smile 
had in it something of pride as it rested on the speaker. 

“ Katharine, show Mr. Lynedon the way to your grand- 
father’s study ; you understand him better than any one,” 
said Mrs. Ogilvie. 

4 


48 


THE OGILVIES. 


“May I be permitted?” And Paul Lynedon led the 
young girl out of the room with a stately courtesy, that 
made Katharine almost fancy she was escorted by Sir 
Charles Grandison. 

Through the long hall, where the light of modern gas 
contrasted strangely enough with the quaint paneled walls 
and ancient mouldings, Katharine and her cavalier passed. 
She could hardly believe that she was really with him, that 
her hand rested on his arm, that his actual voice was in her 
ear, talking with gentle consideration of all things which 
he thought likely to set the timid girl at her ease. 

And there was something so irresistibly winning in Paul’s 
manners, that before they reached Sir James’s door Kath- 
arine found herself talking frankly of her grandfather, his 
love for her, his waning intellect, and explaining the misap- 
prehension which had led to his anxiety to see Mr. Lyne- 
don. 

“ I hardly know whether it would not be as well to let 
him continue in the fancy,” said Katharine. “ It certainly 
gives him pleasure ; but then, even to please him, I do not 
like to deceive dear grandpapa.” 

“ It would not be deceit, for I may really belong to the 
same family,” answered Lynedon, as they entered. 

The old baronet raised himself on his gold-headed cane 
and courteously greeted his visitor. 

“ It is to me an honor and pleasure to welcome my old 
friend’s son. Am I not right in addressing the heir of Vis- 
count Lynedon ?” 

“ My name is Lynedon, and I have no doubt that my 
father was well acquainted with the name of Sir James 
Ogilvie,” said Paul, evasively. 

Somehow Katharine did not like the subterfuge; and 
yet it sprang from kindly feeling. She said this to herself 
until she became quite satisfied ; the more so, as Lynedon 
replaced the old man in his chair with an air of respectful 
courtesy, and then, taking a seat beside him, entered into 
conversation. A most entertaining conversation too — in 
which he showed himself perfectly acquainted with the 


THE OGILVIES. 


49 


history of the long-past era, wherein alone Sir James seem- 
ed to exist. Moreover, he apj^eared to throw his whole mind 
into the subject with a cordial earnestness that at first ex- 
cited Katharine’s surprise, and then her warm admiration. 

“ How kind, how considerate, how clever he is,” she 
thought to herself, as she stood apart, watching each ex- 
pression of his face, and listening to the music of his voice. 
Through every avenue by which brilliant and noble quali- 
ties first attract and then enchain a heart alive to all that 
is good and beautiful, was Paul Lynedon unconsciously 
taking possession of Katharine’s. 

While unwittingly stealing this young girl’s liking, 
Lynedon no less won that of Sir James. Delightedly the 
old man passed from conversation about public matters to 
inquiries concerning his friend the Viscount and the whole 
Lynedon family, all of which Paul answered with a clear- 
ness and readiness that charmed his companion. Katha- 
rine, having now completely got over the fact that Paul 
had assumed an untrue character to please her grandfa- 
ther, felt quite glad that, though there was a slight mistake 
about his being the Viscount’s son, Lynedon was so well 
acquainted with all the history of his family, and could 
thus delight Sir J ames so much. 

The dinner-bell rang when he was in the rriidst of an ac- 
count of the marriage of Lord Lynedon’s eldest daughter. 

“ I am sorry that I must now relinquish the honor of your 
society, my dear young friend — for may I not bestow that 
name on your father’s son ?” said the Baronet, taking Lyne- 
don’s hand with a curious mixture of formality and affec- 
tion. 

“ I shall always be proud of the title,” answered Paul, 
earnestly. 

“ And besides, on second thoughts, I believe that more 
than one intermarriage has taken place between the Lyne- 
dons and the Ogilvies. Katharine, before you go, bring me 
that c Peerage ;’ I feel almost sure that there must be some 
connection between Mr. Lynedon and ourselves. Suppose 
he were to turn out a cousin — eh ?” 


50 


THE OGILVIES. 


“I should be only too happy to claim any relationship 
to Miss Ogilvie.” It was a common phrase of courtesy ; 
he would have said the same to any one, especially a wom- 
an ; and yet the blood rushed to Katharine’s cheek, and her 
heart beat wildly. She hastily walked to the bookcase; 
but if “Debrett’s Peerage” had been written as plain as 
with letters of phosphorus, her eyes could not have discov 
ared it. 

But Lynedon’s practice of the bienseances was never at 
fault, and the book was soon in Sir James’s hand. 

“ Adieu, my dear young friend. Katharine, bring him 
again very soon,” said the Baronet. 

He must be a very old man, your grandfather,” observed 
Paul Lynedon, carelessly, as they threaded once more the 
long passages. 

“ Very old. How kind of you to talk to him so much !” 
Katharine answered, in a soft, grateful accent. 

“ Oh, not at all — not at all, my dear Miss Ogilvie. But, 
here is the drawing-room a very desert, with Miss Eleanor 
for its solitary rose. Let me have the happiness of escort 
ing both the fair cousins to the dining-room.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

As on the finger of a throned queen 

The basest jewel would be well esteemed, 

So are those errors that in thee are seen 
To truths translated, and for true things deemed. 

Shakspeare. 

Mrs. Lancaster, hemmed in on one side by the sedate 
and somewhat ponderous courtesies of Mr. Ogilvie, and on 
the other by the long interval of dinner-table space which 
separated her from the inanities of her husband, looked oft- 
en toward the other side, where Paul Lynedon sat between 
the two fair cousins, trying to enliven as much as possible 
the terrible solemnity of this always formal meal. 

It is not in human nature to talk well during soup. This 


THE OGILVIES. 


51 


is the case even with the most serious and earnest of con' 
versationalists — those who, disliking the current nothings 
of society, plunge at once into some sensible topic, so as to 
fathom, if possible, the minds of their associates. These 
excellent coral-divers of society find their occupation gone 
at the commencement of a dinner-party ; a few refreshing 
dips over head, just to try the waters, are all they can ven- 
ture, until the necessary duties of eating and drinking are 
performed. 

Therefore, since we aim not at chronicling every word 
and action with exact fidelity, even as Van Eyck painted 
the hairs of a lapdog’s tail and the nails in a floor, we do 
not think it necessary to enumerate all the graceful trifles 
that Paul Lynedon said, interesting his fair neighbors first, 
and by degrees the eiders of the company. He threw over 
the commonest things a light filigree - work of imagina- 
tion, which, while unsubstantial and evanescent, made ev- 
ery thing seem beautiful for the time. And is not such an 
art of passing glamour a most beneficial attainment in this 
weary, dusty, matter-of-fact world of ours ? 

When the serious business of dinner had resolved itself 
into the graceful dolce far niente of dessert, Mrs. Ogilvie 
observed, 

“ I hope, Mr. Lynedon, that my poor father did not weary 
you very much ?” 

“Not at all ; we got on admirably together, did we not, 
Miss Ogilvie ?” And Paul turned to Katharine, who gave 
a delighted assent. 

“ Grandpapa was delighted with Mr. Lynedon,” she ob- 
served. “ I never saw him more pleased. And Mr. Lyne- 
don knew all about the branch of his own family of which 
grandpapa talked, so that he could answer every question. 
Where could you get so much information, Mr. Lynedon ? 
and how well you seemed to remember every thing !” 

“ Perhaps I did not quite remember every thing, Miss 
Ogilvie,” he answered, smiling. “My history of the Lyne- 
don pedigree was, like hasty novels, only ‘ founded on facts.’ 
It seemed to please your grandfather, and I was delighted 


52 


THE OGILVIES. 


to secure his good opinion, even though it entailed upon 
me some exercise of imagination. But — hut,” he stopped 
and hesitated, for he met the calm clear eyes of Eleanor 
Ogilvie fixed on his face with an expression before which 
his own fell. 

He grew confused, and tried to laugh the matter ofiT. “ I 
fear your cousin here thinks there was something very 
wicked in my little extempore romance. Yet I did all for 
the best. Let me plead before my fair accuser.” 

“ I am no accuser,” said Eleanor, gently. 

“ Surely Eleanor would not say one word against what 
was done with such kindly motives, and succeeded so well 
in giving grandpapa pleasure?” said Katharine, while an 
unwonted light kindled her dark eyes. “ It was very kind 
of Mr. Lynedon — and very right too.” 

Paul looked surprised, perhaps a little gratified. He 
thanked his “ young defender,” as he called her, and 
changed the conversation, which, by his consummate skill, 
he caused to flow in an easy and pleasant current until the 
ladies retired. 

“ What do you think of Mr. Lynedon now, Eleanor ?” 
cried Katharine, as, leaving Mrs. Lancaster and her hostess 
deeply engaged in a purely feminine discussion on dress, 
the two cousins crept away to Mrs. Ogilvie’s dressing-room, 
and there indulged in a talk. 

“ Under what particular phase am I to criticise this hero 
of yours, Katharine ? Do you wdsh me to call him hand- 
some ?” 

“No; for that would not be true. But is he not very 
clever — so perfect a gentleman — so refined ?” 

“Too refined.” 

“ How can that be possible ? Keally, Eleanor, what taste 
you have !” said Katharine, turning away. 

“ To speak candidly, though there were many things in 
Mr. Lynedon that pleased me very much, there was one 
that I did not like — why did he make grandpapa believe 
what was not true ?” 

“ Because he wished to give pleasure, and therefore it 
was not wrong — I am sure it was not.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


53 


“ Now, Katharine, I think it was. Plainly, what he call* 
ed a little romance was a tissue of untruths.” 

“You are very unjust, Eleanor.” 

“ I hope not ; but you asked me for my opinion, and how 
can I help giving it ? It seemed to me that Mr. Lynedon 
thought more of being generally agreeable than of doing 
what was right.” 

“There you are at your moralizings again; where did 
you learn them all ?” 

Eleanor would have been puzzled to answer ; but, never- 
theless, her perception of this man’s character was a true 
one. He had a keener desire to appear than to be ; public 
ambition and love of social approbation were united in him, 
and together seemed likely to become so strong as to ren- 
der invisible in his own eyes the “ indirect crook’d ways” 
by which he attained his end. Yet even this fault had its 
origin in that natural longing after the praise and love of 
human kind, which is the germ of the noblest qualities ot 
our nature. It is a creed, harmless indeed, and inclining 
us to patience and long-suffering, that evil itself is but an 
ill-regulated good, and has no separate existence. There 
is not a poison-weed cumbering the ground that may not 
once have been a flower. And it rests still with the Great 
Fashioner, who, being all good, could not create positive 
evil, to stay the rampant growth, and to resolve each cor- 
rupted particle into its own pure elements. 

We have wandered strangely from our scene, persons, 
and conversation ; yet such wanderings are not uncommon 
in real life. Every one must now and then lift up the cur- 
tain of his inner being, and it is always good so to do. Per- 
haps Eleanor’s “ moralizings,” as her cousin called them, had 
in some degree this effect, for it is certain that both she and 
Katharine looked silently into the fire for some minutes be- 
fore they attempted to move. 

At last Katharine rose, and smoothed her long black hair 
before the mirror. She looked for the reflection therein 
more earnestly than she was wont, for Katharine was one 
who cared little for her own personal appearance — probably 


54 


THE OGILVIES. 


because, having all her life been told how plain she was, 
she now fully believed it, and reconciled herself to her fate. 
But this night a faint sigh revealed a few rebellious feel- 
ings struggling in her young bosom. 

“ Eleanor,” she said, “ it must be very pleasant to be 
beautiful.” 

“ Why — in order to be admired ?” 

“Not exactly so; but that we might give pleasure to 
others. Is not every one glad to look on what is fair? and 
if we could ourselves be as pleasant as pictures or statues 
in the eyes of others, at least of those we love — ” 

“ A sweet, loving definition of a desire which I suppose 
all have more or less,” said Eleanor. “What made you 
think of it just now ?” 

“Because I was looking at myself, and thinking how dif- 
ferent it would be if I saw a beautiful reflection in the glass 
instead of that ugly face and lanky figure.” 

“ My dear Katharine,” answered her cousin, putting her 
arms round the girl’s neck, “ do not speak so of yourself ; 
remember, you are quite young ; I should not wonder if 
you turned out a beauty yet — tall, thin girls like you very 
often do.” 

“ Do you think so ? do you really think so ? Oh, how 
glad I am !” And then a sudden shame dyed her face and 
neck crimson. “ I am afraid you will think me very vain 
and foolish ; but — but — ” 

“ I think you a wayward, fanciful, darling girl, and the 
more you let me peep into your heart, no matter what I see 
there, the more you will please your cousin Nelly. And 
now let us go down stairs.” 

Mrs. Ogilvie sat in one arm-chair, and Mrs. Lancaster in 
another — two planets in opposition. They certainly be- 
longed to different hemispheres, and no power on earth 
could make them blend their light. Poor Mrs. Ogilvie had 
had a most painful hunt after ideas, and now, wearied and 
worn, she fairly gave in, unable to pursue the chase, and 
determining to let the conversation take its chance. Mrs. 
Lancaster was one of those inflexible talkers who will 


THE OGILVIES. 


55 


choose their subject, and “ say their say,” without regard* 
ing the capabilities of their hearers. If the latter under- 
stood and followed, well; if not, she let them “toil after 
her in vain” until she had done, and then passed on, rejoic- 
ing in the superiority of her own intellect. Yet, at times, 
she positively plumed herself upon her skill in adapting 
her conversation to all varieties of listeners. Under this 
idea she would in these days have entered a village black- 
smith’s and talked about Elihu Burritt, or discussed with 
some poor stocking-weaver Lee’s invention of the loom, il- 
lustrated by fragmentary allusions to Elmore’s late picture 
on this subject; a speech on the union of art and manufac- 
tures forming an appropriate winding up to the whole. 

Thus Mrs. Lancaster had glided from the examination 
of her hostess’s dress to a dissertation on the costume of 
the Middle Ages, varied by references to Froissart and the 
illuminated manuscripts of monkish times. Mrs. Ogilvie, 
carried out of her depth, struggled for a little, and had 
failed in her last despairing effort, just when her daughter 
and niece came to the rescue. Eleanor saw at once the 
state of the case by the sudden, half-imploring glance which 
her aunt turned to the opening door, and the unchanging 
smile of patient politeness which sat on her lips. Taking 
her place by Mrs. Ogilvie, she relieved guard, ingeniously 
sustaining the whole burden of Mrs. Lancaster’s conversa- 
tion until coffee appeared, and with it the wanderer, Hugh. 

In most after-dinner female coteries the advent of one of 
the nobler sex produces a satisfactory change, and Hugh’s 
coming formed no exception to the rule. His cheerful face 
always brought sunshine with it. Mrs. Ogilvie gathered 
courage, Mrs. Lancaster thawed, and the two girls were 
fully disposed to enjoyment. Only Katharine, while she 
tried to interest herself in Hugh’s account of his day’s 
sport, could not help wondering now and then what it was 
that detained Paul Lynedon. 

Lynedon was deep in a conversation with Mr. Ogilvie 
concerning electioneering. There was a borough near, 
where the Summerwood interest still lingered, despite the 
C 2 


56 


THE 0GILVIES. 


Reform Act ; and Paul’s inward dream of ambition invest 
ed Mr. Ogilvie’s conversation with a wondr.ous charm. Ho 
did not act — for, as we have before stated, Paul Lynedon 
was not habitually insincere — but the golden shadow of 
the time to come, when his host’s friendship might be of 
service, made him regard many a prosy commonplace with 
a feeling of real interest, and also exert his own powers to 
their utmost in order to produce a satisfactory impression. 

When the clear singing of a young girl penetrated to 
the dining-room, Paul first remembered he had asked Elea- 
nor the usual question, “ Did she love music ?” and the sud- 
den brightening of her face had answered the question bet- 
ter than her tongue. He felt sure that the voice was hers, 
and the future election, with all its ingenious devices, be- 
gan to fade from his mind. When he reached the draw- 
ing-room door it was quite obliterated. 

Paul Lynedon never saw one cheek that glowed with 
sudden pleasure at his entrance ; he walked straight to the 
piano, and said to Eleanor, “ I knew I was right. It was 
you who sang, was it not ?” 

“ Yes ; I love music, as I think I told you.” 

“ Will you sing again for me ?” 

“You are quite unconscionable,” said Mrs. Lancaster, 
while the faintest shade of acrimony mingled with her dul- 
cet tone. “ I am sure she must be tired.” 

The hint failed ; and Mrs. Lancaster was doomed to a 
little longer silence while Eleanor sang again, and yet 
again. Paul Lynedon was enchanted ; for her voice was 
the true heart-music, and it touched the purest and inmost 
springs of his nature. He was no longer the mere polished 
gentleman of society ; he stood as Katharine had first be- 
held him — so silent, so deeply moved, that he forgot to pay 
a single compliment, and even to say “ Thank you.” 

He knew not that Eleanor had sung thus well only be- 
cause she had forgotten his presence, his very existence; be- 
cause every song, by rousing some hidden link of memory 
and touching some secret feeling, carried her further and 
further away into the dim past and blotted out all the pres- 


THE OGILYIES. 


57 


ent. He guessed not that while she poured out her whole 
heart, no thought of him or of his approval influenced the 
song ; that, though he stood beside her, the face she saw 
was not his; and when at last his voice thanked her, it jar- 
red on her ear like a painful waking from a pleasant dream. 

And then her uncle and Mr. Lancaster came with their 
vapid acknowledgments. But neither they nor the gentle 
Mrs. Ogilvie, who in the good-nature of others saw the re- 
flection of her own, and praised her niece accordingly — nor 
the worldly fashionable dame who, living all for outside 
show, secretly acknowledged that, though done for effect, 
it was almost as good as reality — nor poor simple Katha- 
rine, who marveled at no inspiration the guerdon of which 
was Paul Lynedon’s praise — not one of these had fathomed 
the truth, or knew how it was that Eleanor Ogilvie had 
sung so well. 

The change wrought in Paul Lynedon made him seem 
more attractive even in Eleanor’s eyes. His manner grew 
earnest, and lost that outside gloss of almost annoying def- 
erence which characterized it when he had talked with the 
two girls at dinner. He spoke like a man — put forth his 
own opinion honestly, even when it differed from theirs. 
They talked — he, and Eleanor, and Katharine — about books 
and music, and all pleasant things which are a continual 
feast to the young and happy. Recognizing Hugh, Lyne- 
don drew him, almost against his will, into the charmed 
circle ; conquering his reluctance to talk, and making him 
feel interested upon subjects that otherwise he cared little 
about. It was rather an exertion, but Paul was in a hap- 
py mood. So all conflicting elements were reconciled, 
Lynedon and Eleanor leading the way and supporting the 
chief conversation. Hugh was happy, for he had Katha- 
rine next to him. She sat almost silent, veiling her dark 
dreamy eyes with their long lashes ; and at times, when 
Paul Lynedon spoke earnestly, raising them to his face 
with a look which once positively startled him with its in- 
tenseness. Katharine was conscious of but one influence 
—new, strange, delicious — which breathed in his words, 


58 


THE OGILVIES. 


which brightened every thing whereon he looked. He 
seemed to her some glorious and divine creature 

Whose overpowering presence made her feel 
It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

And Paul Lynedon — what did he think of her ? Let his 
own words tell. 

“You seem delighted with the Ogilvies?” whispered 
Mrs. Lancaster, as, somewhat piqued by a dull evening 
passed with the elders, she was about to retire. 

“ Oh, certainly — delighted !” echoed Paul ; “ they are a 
charming family.” 

“ Especially the young vocalist ?” 

Lynedon answered warmly, but laconically, “ I quite 
agree with you.” 

“ And the dark-eyed Katharine ?” 

“ A gentle, thoughtful creature ; evidently full of feeling, 
and so much attached to her cousin. That fact alone 
shows what she must be. I like — nay, I almost love Kath- 
arine Ogilvie.” 

And it so chanced that, in passing by, Katharine heard 
the words ! 

He had said them idly, and forgotten them as soon as 
they were uttered ; but they gave a coloring to her whole 
life. 

Oh ye who have passed through the cloudy time when 
youth is struggling with the strange and mysterious stir- 
rings of that power which, either near or remote, environs 
our whole life with its influence — ye who can now look 
back calmly on that terrible mingling of stormy darkness 
and glorious light, and know on what shadowy nothings 
love will build airy palaces wherein a god might dwell 
— regard with tenderness that enthusiastic dream ! Per- 
chance there is one of you who has dreamed like Katha 
rine Ogilvie. 


THE OGILVIES. 


59 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Say never, ye loved once. 

God is too near above — the grave below, 

And all our moments go 
Too quickly past our souls, for saying so. 

The mysteries of life and death avenge 
Affections light of range. 

There comes no change to justify that change. 

E. B. Browning. 

The memory of the withered leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garnered autumn sheaf ; 

Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ! 

The right ear that is filled with dust 
Hears little of the false or just. — Tennyson. 

There are in our existence days which are ages. True, 
at such seasons the hours glide as fast — nay, faster — in 
their golden stream ; but when we look back it seems as 
though the narrow tide of a single day had swelled into a 
life’s flood — a mighty ocean which upheaves itself between 
us and the last epoch that we called The Past. 

It was thus with Katharine when she arose next morn- 
ing. Her foot seemed already within the shining entrance- 
gate of a new paradise. The old childish world of a few 
hours since looked far distant — and oh, how pale and dim ! 
She scarcely turned her face to gaze upon it now. All 
night her spirit had floated amongst the most delicious 
fancies — and even on her waking she felt as still in a dream. 
On descending, she found that her restless happiness had 
made her the earliest riser in the house. She lingered a 
few minutes in the breakfast-room, looking out on the dap- 
pled morning sky, and thinking how beautiful the world 
was. Then she went into the drawing-room, and began to 
pour out her heart’s emotion to her usual friendly confi- 
dante — her piano-forte. Katharine loved music intensely ; 


60 


THE OGILVIES. 


but the very sense which made her feel so keenly the pow- 
er of song rendered its science irksome in the extreme. 
Still, though in society she shrank from any display, she 
sometimes sat alone for hours, her light fingers and sweet 
but feeble voice weaving together all sorts of melodies, 
most of which were the inspiration of the moment. 

Now, almost unconsciously, she glided into the song 
which Miss Trevor’s rich tones and Lynedon’s praise had 
impressed upon her memory. She sang it with her whole 
heart, seeing nothing save perchance one likeness which 
her fancy conjured up, and which formed the inspiration 
of the strain. 

“ Thank you, Miss Ogilvie,” said a voice behind — Paul 
Lynedon’s own — for he had entered softly ; “ why will you 
compel me to act the spy in order to attain such a pleas- 
ure as this ?” 

Katharine did not answer. Poor child ! she trembled 
like a little bird in its captor’s hands. 

Paul thought what terribly hard work it was to get on 
at all with young girls who bore the lingering traces of 
pinafores and bread-and-butter. But good-nature urged 
him to make another attempt. 

“ I was not aware that you sang at all, still less that you 
knew this pet song of mine, which I asked your cousin for 
in vain last night. Why did you not tell me so ?” 

“ Because I can not sing,” murmured Katharine ; “ I have 
scarcely any voice.” 

“Nay, I must difier from you there. You have a very 
sweet one, only it wants power and proper cultivation. 
But you sing with your soul, if not with your lips ; and 
that is what I love to hear.” 

And then Lynedon, to relieve her confusion, went on 
talking in an easy, kind, quiet manner about the quality 
of her voice and the way to strengthen it. “But what a 
long speech I am giving you — quite a lecture on music,” 
he added, laughing. 

“ I like to listen to you ; pray go on, ” said Katharine, 
simply. 


THE OGILVIES. 


61 


(“So, here is some improvement; we shall get on in 
time,” thought Paul Lynedon.) And then he continued : 
“ What I mean to say is, that, as we ought to let no talent 
rust, you ought to try to sing as well as you can. It may 
not be quite so charmingly as your cousin, but you will 
give pleasure to many, as you did to me this morning.” 

“ I am glad — very glad,” said Katharine, with a bright 
smile, and that earnest look which always puzzled Lyne* 
don in her intense dark eyes. 

“Thank you; and you will sing whenever I ask you, 
like a dear little friend ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then thank you once more,” answered Paul, feeling to- 
ward the “little shy girl” a real liking, which sprang partly 
from gratified self-love at having succeeded so well in the 
difficult task of drawing her out. “Then it is agreed, Miss 
Katharine — Miss Ogilvie, I mean, for so you are by right, 
I think.” 

“ Yes, but I am never called so — only Katharine ; I like 
it best.” 

“ Then I will call you Katharine, if you will allow me.” 

Another quiet “ yes” sealed the compact : and thus was 
woven one more link of the invisible chain. 

The time of the visit flew by — the “rest-day” — the 
“ prest-day” — and still the guests lingered, to the satisfac- 
tion of all. It is astonishing how soon an agreeable party 
at a country-house seems to grow into one family. It was 
so at Summerwood. Whatever passions were dawning to 
life beneath, there were no stirrings on the surface to break 
the peace and harmony of that pleasant circle. 

Paul Lynedon after a few days began to think of Eleanor 
a great deal more than he liked to confess. Perhaps this 
was because her character burst upon him with a freshness 
that quite contradicted his former notions of women. She 
was the first who, if not treating him with positive indif- 
ference, had at least never sought in any way to win his 
attention. Her perfect independence annoyed him. It 
was in vain that every time he spoke there dropped from 


62 


THE OGILVIES. 


his lips, like the fairy gift of pearls and diamonds, compli 
ments graceful and refined — the envied wonder of all his 
fair friends of old. But Eleanor never once stooped to 
pick them up. His vanity was piqued ; and, after trying 
the experiment for a short time on Katharine, he gave up 
these elegant flatteries, and became his own real self — his 
better self. But this change only gained from Eleanor a 
surprised, pleased, and friendly response. She treated him 
with greater warmth, but still with the unreserve and frank 
kindness which she showed to every one around her. With 
men of Lynedon’s character opposition is often the great- 
est incentive to love. Before he had been many days in 
her society, Paul was more epris with Eleanor than he had 
ever been with any woman during his gay and mercurial 
life. Perhaps, added to the spur of wounded vanity, came 
the impulse of many purer and higher feelings long dormant 
within him, which her true nature had awakened once more; 
and the reverent admiration with which he felt constrained 
to regard this gentle, single-hearted girl, Lynedon’s quick 
temperament mistook for love. 

But, though Eleanor’s influence over him grew stronger 
every day, it was still not strong enough to be outwardly 
discernible. Perhaps Eleanor might have discovered it — - 
for a woman generally sees intuitively where she is loved 
— but her heart was too full of one feeling to admit even 
the suspicion of another. 

There was a second person whose eyes might have been 
open to the elements for future fate that were brooding 
among the gay idlers at Summerwood. But Mrs. Lancas- 
ter was deep in antiquarian researches, traversing the 
country with her host as pioneer; and in this lady, love 
for science — at least for the eclat that science brings — 
shut out even the feminine impulse of curiosity. 

So the young people walked, rode, drove in the pleasant 
winter mornings — sat by the evening fire, and talked, or 
sang, or told ghost-stories, until the week ended, and with 
it Mrs. Lancaster’s peregrinations. She spoke of going 
home ; and after the usual friendly contest pro and c o??, 


THE OGILVIES. 


63 


the affair was decided. The last evening came — the last 
morning. No more would there be of those social fire- 
sides at night, of that merry breakfast-table chat. When 
Katharine rose to answer her grandfather’s summons, she 
felt this so strongly that, ere she reached the hall, her eyes 
were overflowing. As she passed on toward her grand- 
father’s room, she heard Lynedon call — 

“ Katharine, dear” — he often called her “ dear” now, 
when they were alone especially — “ tell Sir James I will 
be with him by the time the reading is finished.” 

He had usually come in to aid her in the task — and now, 
the last day, every moment spent in his sight became so 
precious ! It was a disappointment that made what was 
ever a loving duty seem almost a burden. 

Paul thought that during that time he might contrive 
to be a few moments alone with Eleanor ; not to tell her 
he loved her — he was too cautious for that — but to try 
and gain some word or look on which his own heart might 
rest for a time when he should feel he was no longer in her 
presence. But there was Hugh, busy making flies, his usual 
morning occupation, and continually calling out for his sis- 
ter’s light fingers to aid in the dubbing, or to cut the wings. 
Eleanor, all-patient as she was, seemed quite content; but 
Lynedon grew restless and uncomfortable. At last, seeing 
no chance of the brief interview he sought, he went to Sir 
James’s study. 

Katharine was still reading ; but there was a vacant 
look in the old man’s eyes, which seemed to imply that the 
listener profited as little as the reader. Every now and 
then he interrupted her, to ask, in a voice feebler than usu- 
al, some question that betokened a wandering mind. He 
did not notice Paul’s entrance ; and the young man mo- 
tioned to Katharine not to cease, while he placed himself 
behind her and looked over what she read. It was an old 
paper that chronicled the coronation of George III. ; and 
Paul could not help listening with a strange, almost painful 
feeling, to the description of festivities shared by courtiers 
and court beauties whose very memory had passed away. 

5 


64 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ It must have been a gay sight, grandpapa ?” said Kath- 
arine, pausing. 

“ Eh ! what did you say, my child ?” 

Katharine repeated her observation. 

“ Read that last sentence again, dear ; I don’t think 1 
quite understood it. Indeed, things do not seem quite 
clear here to-day.” The old man touched his forehead 
with a feeble smile, and tried to attend while Katharine 
read. Then he shook his head mournfully, and said, “ It is 
of no use, Katharine ; I can’t make it out. What is it ?” 

“ It is an account of the coronation levee, dear grandpa- 
pa, and of who were presented ; look, here is your own 
name, Sir James Ogilvie, among the rest.” 

“ Ah ! yes — I remember I went — let me see, it must have 
been last week, for the Gazette appears weekly now. And 
the King has asked me to go down to Windsor and hunt ; 
don’t forget that, Katharine ; and, while I think of it, ring 
for Peters, to see about Ringdove. His Majesty said there 
was not a finer hunter any where than my Ringdove. 
Make haste, love.” 

Katharine looked imploringly at Paul Lynedon, who 
stepped forward. 

“My dear Sir James, you are thinking of things long 
gone by.” 

“Eh — what — who are you, sir? I never saw you be- 
fore,” said the old man, over whom a strange change ap- 
peared to have come, for his dim eyes glittered, and he 
moved restlessly in his chair. “ Katharine, who is this gen- 
tleman? I don’t know him. What is he going to do with 
me ?” and he caught her hand uneasily. 

“ Dearest grandpapa, it is only Mr. Lynedon.” 

“Lynedon; ah! to be sure — Viscount Lynedon. My 
dear lord, you have come from the levee ; perhaps the 
King has invited you too? Ah! is it so? that’s well. 
How young you look ! You find me not over strong, my 
dear friend, but I shall soon be better — very soon.” 

The old man paused a moment in his unusual volubility, 
and turned to Lynedon and Katharine, neither of whom 


THE OGILYIES. 


65 


would speak. A vague terror oppressed the latter •, she be- 
came very pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Sir James 
looked wistfully at her. 

“Who is that lady — I don’t remember her?” he whis- 
pered to Lynedon. Katharine’s tears overflowed, and she 
hid her face. 

“ It is Katharine — your own Katharine,” said Paul. 

“My own Katharine ,” repeated the old man; “yes, it 
must he Katharine — Katharine Mayhew. But you mis- 
take, my lord ; you must not call her my Katharine. Come 
another day, and I’ll tell you all about it ; I can’t now 
and his voice trembled. “ There she is, weeping still. My 
dear friend, go to her : we must do as the world does, and 
if her father should come in — Tell her I did love her — I 
did indeed — and I always shall, though they will not let us 
marry. Katharine, my Katharine, do not weep.” 

His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned 
back with closed eyes, his fingers fluttering to and fro on 
the elbows of the chair. Lynedon motioned for Katharine 
to speak to him. 

“ Are you tired, dear grandpapa, or unw r ell ? Shall I call 
any one ?” 

“ No, no, no ! I am quite well, only tired — so tired !” 

“ Is your father in the house, Katharine ?” asked Paul, 
who felt more alarmed than he liked to let her see. 

“ No ; he is gone out with Mrs. Lancaster — I think to the 
church.” 

“ Church !” said the old baronet, opening his eyes at the 
word. “ Are we at the church ? Ah ! yes, I remember I 
promised. And so you are to be married, Katharine May- 
hew— married after all ? Well, well ! This is your bride- 
groom — and his name — ” 

“ Dear grandpapa, you are thinking of something else,” 
cried Katharine. “ Here is no one but Mr. Lynedon and 
myself.” 

“ Lynedon — so you are going to marry a Lynedon ! 
Well, I had not thought so once. But here we are, and I 
must say the words myself. Give me your hands — ” 


66 


THE OGILVIKS. 


“ Do not contradict him ; it is best not,” whispered Paul, 
Sir James joined their hands together. Even at that mo> 
ment of terror and excitement, a wild thrill shot through 
Katharine’s heart, and her very brow crimsoned at the 
touch. The old man muttered some indistinct sounds, and 
stopped. 

“ I have forgotten the service — how does it begin ? Ah ! 
I remember,” continued he, very faintly — “Earth to earth, 
ashes to ashes, dust to dust — ” 

Katharine started up and shrieked with terror, for her 
grandfather had sunk back in his chair, white and ghastly. 
One feeble shudder convulsed the aged limbs, and then all 
was stillness. 

Paul and Katharine — their hands still clasped together 
— stood in the presence of Death. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The ordinary use of acquaintance is a sharing of talk, news, drink, mirth, 
together ; hut sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing nearer the heart, 
and to be delivered with it. — Bishop Selden. 

She did but look upon him, and his blood 
Blushed deeper, even from his inmost heart ; 

For at each glance of those sweet eyes, a soul 
Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven. 

Philip Bailey. 

“ Wiiat a shocking occurrence — really quite unfortunate, 
that it should have happened just now !” said Mrs. Lancas- 
ter, as she paced the drawing-room in a state of nervous 
agitation, half affected, half real. This was some two or 
three hours after the first excitement , and terror-stricken 
grief of the family had subsided into the stillness of a 
household which had been invaded by Death. 

The lady’s remark drew no answer from Paul Lynedon, 
who was the only person present. He sat leaning his head 
on his hand, in a grave attitude. 

“I wish Julian would make haste with the carriage. I 


EARTH TO EARTH, ASHES TO ASHES, 1>UST TO DUST, 












THE OGILVIES. 


67 


shall be glad to get away. It is so very unpleasant to be 
where there is a death in the house : it makes me quite 
nervous ! If the old gentleman had but lived until night — 
Really, Mr. Lynedon, I wish you would speak instead of 
sitting there without uttering a word — and when you see 
me so agitated, too.” 

“ I am very sorry,” began Paul, in an absent tone. 
“ Death is, indeed, solemn !” 

“ Of course — of course ; but you know I do not think 
with these stupid church-going people. No one of strong 
mind would. There is Mrs. Ogilvie, with her Bible quota- 
tions and her talk about ‘ submission as if it were not a 
good thing that the old man is gone — such a trouble as he 
was. Of course they are all in their hearts quite thankful 
for the event.” 

At this moment a low moaning from one of the distant 
apartments reached the drawing-room. Paul Lynedon’s 
countenance changed from the apathy with which he had 
listened to Mrs. Lancaster to an expression of deep com- 
passion. 

“ Hark ! that is Katharine. Poor child ! poor child !” 

“ She has been in hysterics ever since you carried her to 
her room. It is almost time the scene were ended, I fan- 
cy,” answered the lady, sarcastically. 

“ How can you !” exclaimed Lynedon, with a look of 
grave reproof ; but immediately recollecting himself, his 
countenance resumed its usual expression, and he relapsed 
into the silence which had excited Mrs. Lancaster’s ani 
madversions. 

She, on her part, was becoming thoroughly vexed with 
her protege. For several days he had not paid her half the 
attention which she exacted, or wished to exact ; and now 
it appeared to her that his mind was entirely occupied by 
thoughts in which she had evidently no share. The lady’s 
conjectures were right. At this moment her worldliness 
and cold-heartedness were almost abhorrent to Paul Lyne- 
don. For days there had been a struggle within him be- 
tween the two influences, the true and the unreal — custom 


68 


THE OGILVIES. 


on the one hand, and on the other purity, simplicity, and 
nature. The latter were especially attractive as they came 
in the guise of Eleanor Ogilvie. Now, startled, awed by 
the day’s event, and brought for the first time in his life 
within the presence of death — at least of sudden death — 
Lynedon had put off for a while the fictions which consti- 
tuted his outer self. To him there was now something 
painfully repugnant in the affectations with which Mrs. 
Lancaster broke in upon the current of thoughts deeper 
and purer than the young man had indulged in for a long 
season. 

“Thank heaven, there are the carriage-wheels,” cried 
Mrs. Lancaster, who had been impatiently beating time on 
the window-panes with her gloved fingers. “Now we 
shall get away without meeting the family.” 

“ What ! shall you not see them before you go ?” asked 
Paul, with much surprise. 

“ Oh no ; such an intrusion would be indecorous. I will 
send cards when I get home.” 

“ Cards ! Why, I thought, of all woman’s duties and 
privileges, there was none so sacred as that of consolation. 
Surely I have heard you say so yourself.” 

Mrs. Lancaster shrugged her shoulders. 

“In other cases, certainly; but in this — however, my 
dear friend, I can not argue the point now, for here is Ju- 
lian with the boxes. Really, it is very disagreeable to 
wait upon ourselves, and all because of this old gentle- 
man's death. However, we shall soon be at home. Of 
course, you are quite ready, Mr. Lynedon ?” 

“ I beg your pardon, but I do not go just yet.” 

“Not go ! And, pray, what is the reason of this sudden 
and most disinterested resolution?” said Mrs. Lancaster, 
with a smile of such ironical meaning that Paul Lynedon’s 
cheeks grew many shades deeper with annoyance. But, as 
was customary with him, he showed his vexation only by 
answering in a tone more firm and haughty than usual. 

“Mrs. Lancaster, my only reason is one so trifling that 
‘t hardly deserves your attention. Merely, that having 


THE OGILVIES. 


69 


received much courtesy in this house, I wish to return it 
by inquiring if in this time of confusion and trouble I can 
in any way be of use ; and so, with an apology for troub- 
ling you with this explanation, allow me to lead you to 
your carriage.” 

Verily, the stateliness of the whole Lynedon race for a 
century back was compressed in Paul when he chose to 
exhibit that peculiar manner. The petite graceful Mrs. 
Lancaster shrank into nothing beside the overwhelming 
courtesy of his demeanor. They were silently descending 
the staircase when Eleanor Ogilvie appeared. 

“ How very unpleasant !” and “ How fortunate !” cried 
Mrs. Lancaster, in a breath— the former being of course 
an aside. But a glance at Eleanor’s face, which, though a 
degree paler than ordinary, was perfectly composed, freed 
the departing guest from the apprehension of a scene , and 
she reascended to the drawing-room. 

“ My dearest Eleanor, I would fain have saved us all the 
pain of an adieu. These most afflicting circumstances — 
your feelings — my own — ” and here Mrs. Lancaster took 
out her pocket-handkerchief. 

But Eleanor neither wept nor made any pretense of do- 
ing so. 

“ Thank you for your sympathy,” she answered ; “ and, 
since I see you are going, may I hope that you will excuse 
an omission which — ” 

“Excuse! My dear young friend, I would have re- 
mained could I have been any comfort; but I thought the 
kindest act was to intrude no longer on your sorrow.” 

Eleanor offered no word of dissent to this remark ; and 
Mrs. Lancaster felt so completely at a loss that she again 
had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. 

“ You will bear my adieux and condolence to your runt 
and to poor dear Miss Ogilvie, who must be sadly afflicted.” 

“ Yes,” said Eleanor, briefly. She suffered Mrs. Lancas- 
ter’s veil to sweep her cheek in a salute, and then held out 
her hand to Paul Lynedon, who had stood by in perfect 
silence. 

D 


70 


THE OGILVIES. 


He took the hand, but said quietly, “ I am not bidding 
you adieu, for I do not return to town until night ; perhaps 
I may be of some service.” 

“You are very kind,” was Eleanor’s reply, “but we will 
not encroach on your good offices — there is no need.” 

“That is just what I have been telling him, Miss Eleanor; 
he will only be in the way. You had better come with us, 
Lynedon,” said Mrs. Lancaster. 

Paul never answered her, but raised his eyes to Eleanor. 
His look was so full of earnest feeling, sympathy, and sin- 
cere kindliness, that she was touched. “ You will let me 
stay if I can be of use to any one here ?” he said, gently, 
when Mrs. Lancaster walked forward in ill-concealed im- 
patience. 

“ Thank you, yes ; do as you will,” answered Eleanor, 
while the tears which affected sympathy would never have 
drawn forth confessed the influence of real feeling. The 
traces of this emotion were still on her cheek when Paul 
Lynedon returned to the room. They went to his very 
heart ; for men to whom tears are unknown seem most 
susceptible to their power in women. There is probably 
scarcely any man living who does not feel his heart drawn 
to the girl he loves — or even is only beginning to love — 
it he sees her under the influence of any grief deep enough 
to call forth tears. 

So it was, that when Lynedon came again into Eleanor’s 
presence, his manner was so subdued, so tender, so free 
from all affectation, that she had never felt more inclined 
to regard him with friendly feelings. That she could 
either inspire or return a warmer sentiment had not once 
entered her mind with respect to Paul Lynedon ; therefore 
her manner was always frank, open, and kindly, and now 
even gentler than usual. 

“ This is kind of you — very kind,” she said, giving him 
her hand. He pressed it warmly, as a friend might, and 
then let it go : he could not, dared not suffer the expres- 
sion of love to intrude at such a time. 

“ I feel very much with you— indeed I do,” said Paul’s 


THE OGILVIES. 


7i 


low, musical tones ; “ and that dear child, poor Katharine 
— it was a terrible shock for her.” 

“Yes, Katharine loved him very dearly, and she was the 
darling of his heart. He chose her name, and she was his 
godchild. Poor grandpapa ! I think he loved Katharine 
better than any one in the world. How strange that no 
one should have been present when he died except you 
and herself! Did he say any thing, or seem to suffer: 
Poor Katharine has told us nothing — indeed, she has been 
weeping incessantly ever since.” 

Then Paul Lynedon related the scene in the study, and 
the strange delusion under which Sir James had died. A 
common sympathy, though one of which neither was 
aware, made Paul speak and Eleanor listen with deep in- 
terest to the touching memory of a long-past love. 

“And he remembered her even then, this Katharine May- 
hew — how strange !” 

“ It is not strange,” said Paul, earnestly ; “ no man ever 
forgets the woman whom he first loved. The storms of a 
lifetime may intervene, but that such first true love should 
pass away — never, never !” 

Eleanor’s lips trembled, her bosom heaved, and the voice 
of her soul, even more than that of her tongue, echoed the 
“ never !” It was as the one amen to the universal love- 
orison which every young heart breathes at its first awak- 
ening. But how rarely does each life’s history work out 
the fulfillment of the prayer! Not fate’s mysteries only, 
but the willfulness, change, and weakness of humanity it- 
self, cast a shadow between it and that blessed “ never,” 
which, while still believed in, is strength and hope. Love 
is no longer divine to us when we find out, or begin only 
to suspect, that it is not eternal. 

Lynedon watched Eleanor's evident emotion with a thrill 
of rapture which he could scarcely conceal. He interpret- 
ed all as a lover would fain do. Her lightest word, her 
most passing look, might then have drawn from him the 
confession of his feelings — and would surely have done so, 
despite the solemn time and place, had there been in her an 


72 


THE OGILVIES. 


answering love involuntarily betrayed. But when Eleanor 
lifted up her face, the look which met his was so calm, so 
unconstrained in its maidenly frankness, that the most 
anxious, self-deceiving lover could not have discovered in 
it the secret which he might desire to see. Paul Lynedon 
shrank back into himself ; and the passionate words which 
had risen almost to his lips died away in the ordinary ex- 
pressions of feeling called forth by the occasion. Even 
these were so cold that Eleanor seemed surprised. She 
looked in his face, which was pale and agitated, and her 
womanly sympathy at once supplied the imagined cause. 

“ How ill you look, Mr. Lynedon !” said she, while her 
gentle tone and kind eyes expressed more than her words. 
“ We have been thinking so much of ourselves, and have 
forgotten how much this painful day must have affected 
you. Sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. 
Nay, I will have no refusal.” 

Paul had no power to refuse. When Eleanor brought 
him the wine, he took it from her hand, drank it, and then 
leaned his head against the wall, incapable of uttering one 
word. Eleanor stood by him with a feeling of -deep inter- 
est, mingled with compassion. At last he roused himself, 
and said, with a faint smile, “ You must pardon me.” 

“There is no need — it was a trying scene; no wonder it 
affected you. I often think that men can less bear to come 
within the shadow of death than women can. It is our 
fate — it is we who have to meet the terrible One face to 
face! No matter how regardless a man may be during 
his life of all female ties, it is from mother, wife, sister, or 
daughter that he will seek the last offices of kindness. We 
leave worldly pleasures to you, but you look to us for com- 
fort at the last.” 

Eleanor had said all this — a long speech it was, too, for 
one of her generally undemonstrative character — with the 
kindly intention of giving Paul time to recover himself. 
When she ceased, she found his eyes fixed upon her face 
with an intense, earnest gaze. But the gaze was less that 
of a lover toward his mistress than the upraised, almost 


THE OGILVIES. 


73 


adoring look which a Catholic worshiper might turn to his 
saint. And there was a sweetness and benignity almost 
mother-like in the placid face that bent over Paul Lyne- 
don, and assuaged the troubled waters of his spirit until 
they sank into a calm. 

“ Have I talked to you until you are wearied ?” said 
Eleanor, with one of her peculiar shadowy smiles. “ It is 
some time since I have said so much on my own account. 
How much longer would you listen, I wonder?” 

“ Forever ! forever !” muttered Paul Lynedon. 

“ What were you saying ?” inquired the unconscious 
Eleanor. 

Paul recollected himself at once. 

“That you are very kind and thoughtful — just like a 
woman — and that I am ashamed to have given you so 
much trouble.” 

“ Then you feel quite well now ? If so, I will go up to 
see poor Katharine.” 

“Not yet — not yet,” Lynedon hastily interposed. “You 
were to tell me if there is any thing I can do in London — 
any business to arrange ; or, if not to-day, can not I ride 
back here to-morrow and see ? You know not what pleas- 
ure it would give me to do any thing for you — that is, for 
the family.” 

“I am sure of it — I know how good you are. But my 
uncle and Hugh can arrange every thing.” 

“Nay, your brother is out ten miles off in the forest. 
Shall I ride over to meet him, and inform him of this sad 
event ?” 

“Thank you, but we have already sent; indeed, Mr. 
Lynedon, there is really no need for the exercise of your 
kindness. And since, to be frank with you, my uncle and 
aunt will like best to see no one except Hugh and myself, 
I will positively send you away.” 

“ But I may come to-morrow, or the next day, only to 
inquire after you all, and perhaps see yourself or your 
brother for a few minutes. It will be a satisfaction to 
me ; and Mrs. Lancaster, too, will be glad—” 


74 


THE OGILVIES. 


Eleanor’s countenance changed a little — a very little: 
she was so sincere that even a passing thought ever cast 
some reflection on her face. Her companion saw it, and 
hastened to remove the impression. 

“ You must not judge of me by — that is, I mean to say 
that a man is not accountable for the faults of his friends, 
or — or — acquaintances.” There was some confusion in his 
speech, which was not removed by Eleanor’s total silence. 

“ I wish you to think well of me — indeed I do,” the young 
man continued. “ I know there is much in me wrong ; but 
then I have been left to myself since boyhood — for years 
have not had a home, a mother, or a sister ; and so I have 
grown more worldly than I ought to be. For this reason, 
now, in going away, I feel how much I owe for the pleas- 
ant and good influence of this week to you, who — ” 

Paul was again treading on dangerous ground, but once 
more Eleanor’s composure saved him. 

“I am glad we have made you happy. We wished to 
do so ; and it has been a pleasant week to us all but for its 
sad ending. And now, Mr. Lynedon, since I am the only 
one of the household who can take leave of you, let me 
thank you again on the part of all, and say good-by.” 

“ Good-by,” repeated Paul, as he lingeringly opened the 
door for her, and watched her light figure ascend the wind- 
ing staircase. When she disappeared, his breast relieved 
itself with a heavy sigh. He rode home fully impressed 
with the conviction that the star of his life, now and for- 
ever, w r as Eleanor Ogilvie. 

There was a degree of irresolution in the character of 
Lynedon that caused him often to be swayed against his 
will. With him the past or the future was always sub- 
servient to the influence of the present. So, when he had 
ridden to Summerwood three times in the first week after 
Sir James’s death, and thereupon borne a considerable 
number of Mrs. Lancaster’s smiles and innuendoes, he be- 
gan to feel that there was some cause for the neglect of 
which that lady accused her guest. As the charms of 
Summerwood grew dim m the attraction of successive in- 


THE OGILVIES. 


75 


tellectual dissipations — for it is due to Paul to say that no 
others could have any influence over his fine mind — it so 
chanced that for the next fortnight he never went near the 
Ogilvie family. 


CHAPTER X. 

The transition from sorrow to joy is easiest in pure minds, as the true 
diamond, when moistened by the breath, recovers its lustre sooner than 
the false. — Jean Paul. 

He stood beside me 

The embodied vision of the brightest dream 
That like a dawn heralds the day of life : 

The shadow of his presence made my world 
A paradise. All familiar things he touched, 

All common words he spake, became to me 
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 

He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 

As terrible and lovely as the tempest. 

He came — and went — and left me what I am. 

Shelley. 

Katharine Ogilvie sat in the room which had so long 
been her grandfather’s. It was now, by her own desire, 
virtually resigned to herself. None of his own children 
had loved, and been loved by, Sir James Ogilvie like this 
young girl, who had sprung up in the third generation — a 
late-given flower — to cast sweetness over his old age. So 
Katharine seemed to have a right beyond all others to his 
room and to every thing that had belonged to him. When 
she recovered from the grief and agitation which for some 
days had amounted to real illness, she took possession of 
the study without any opposition, except that her mother’s 
anxious tenderness feared lest the scene of waning life and 
awfully sudden death might have a painful effect on a mind 
so young. 

But Katharine seemed to have arisen from this trance of 
pain and suffering with a new character. During that week 
of illness she had merged from the child into the woman. 


76 


THE OGILVIES. 


A change had passed over her — the life-change, wherein 
the heart awakes, as out of sleep, to feel with a terrible 
vividness the reality of those pulses which had faintly 
stirred in its dreams. 

Katharine knew that the power of which she had read 
and mused had come upon her own soul. She felt in her- 
self the truth of what she had seen shadowed forth in ro- 
mance and song : she knew that she loved. 

It is with a sensation almost amounting to fear that a 
young maiden first discovers the real presence of the life- 
influence in her heart — when she feels that her existence 
no longer centres in itself alone, but has another added to 
it, which becomes, and will become more and more, dear 
as its very soul. Katharine, who in her unconscious sim- 
plicity had given herself up so entirely to the pleasant rev- 
erie of which Paul Lynedon was the presiding spirit, almost, 
shuddered when the light broke in upon her and told her 
that dream was her life. With her, love was not that girl- 
ish fancy which is born of idleness, nourished by vanity, 
and dies in a few months of sheer inanition, to revive again 
in some new phase, and, so transferred from object to ob- 
ject, live out its scores of petty lives, until it fairly wears 
itself out, or settles, at the call of duty or of interest, with- 
in the calm boundaries of matrimonial necessity. Words 
can not too much ridicule or condemn this desecration. 
But a pure -hearted woman’s sincere, true, and life-long 
love, awakened by what either is or she deems to be noble 
and perfect in her ideal, and, as such, made the secret relig- 
ion of her heart, whereon no eye may look, yet which is the 
hidden spring influencing all her thoughts and actions — 
this love is a thing most sacred, too solemn to be lightly 
spoken of, too exalted to need idle pity, too holy to awaken 
any feeling save reverence. 

And such a love was Katharine’s for Paul Lynedon. 

, She sat in her grandfather’s chair, her brow resting 
against the same cushion where in death had fallen the 
aged head now hidden away in eternal repose. Katharine 
turned away from the light and closed her eyes. Her 


THE OGILVIES. 


11 


hands lay crossed on her knee, their extreme and almost 
sickly whiteness contrasting with her black dress. She 
was no longer an invalid, but a dreaminess and languor 
still hung over her, giving their own expression to her face 
and attitude. It was a pleasure to sit still and think — one 
so great, that she often suffered her parents and Hugh to 
suppose her asleep rather than be disturbed by conversa- 
tion. 

The room was so quiet that she might have been alone ; 
but Hugh, who, ever since her recovery, had followed her 
like a shadow, sat at the window, making his eternal flies 
— at least, that was his excuse for remaining with her in 
the study — but he looked oftener at Katharine than at his 
work. So silent and quiet was he that she had entirely 
forgotten his presence, until, waking from her reverie with 
a half-suppressed sigh, she saw him creep softly to her 
chair. 

“ I thought you were asleep, Katharine ; are you awake 
now ?” he said, affectionately. 

Katharine’s answer was a smile. She felt very grateful 
to Hugh, who had been her chief companion for some days, 
and had striven in every way to amuse her. He had given 
up the finest hunt of the season to stay at home with her ; 
and, after in vain trying to interest her in the adventures 
of every fox killed during the winter, had finally offered 
to read aloud to her out of any book she liked, provided it 
was not poetry. But the time was gone by when the lin- 
gering childishness of Katharine’s nature would sympa- 
thize with those purely physical delights of exercise and 
outdoor amusement which constituted Hugh’s world. She 
tried to hide this from him, and attempted to enter into 
every thing as usual ; but it would not do. The day 
lagged very heavily ; and though Hugh was too good-na- 
tured to allude to the hunt, it recurred sorrowfully to his 
mind as he saw from the study windows a few moving 
specks of scarlet sweeping along the distant country. At 
last, when a horse’s feet were heard up the avenue, he 
could rest quiet no longer. 


78 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ It is surely one of the men from the hunt ; I will just 
go and speak to him, and ask him to have some lunch. 
You will not mind being left alone for a few minutes, dear 
Katharine ?” 

“ Oh no — not at all ! You are only too kind to me, 
cousin Hugh ; pray go and enjoy yourself.” 

The door closed on him, and Katharine leaned back in 
quiet, dreamy solitude. She thought of her grandfather — 
how soon every memory of him had passed away from the 
household ; how even the long life of eighty years, with all 
its ties and all its events, had become like a shadow — had 
crumbled into nothing at the touch of death ; so that in 
the world not even a month’s void was left by the human 
soul now departed. And then Katharine’s mind reverted 
to the closing scene of his life ; the old man’s vague wan- 
dering words, which she felt referred to some memory of 
his youth that he had strangely connected with her, not 
knowing that the universal chord thus touched in the 
shadowy past had found its echo in the present. The 
same impulse swayed the spirit then passing away and that 
just entering upon its world-struggles. Amid the solemn 
mournfulness of this death -vision came the remembered 
face of Paul Lynedon ; the gentle sympathy of his look, 
the touch of his hand, the strange symbolizing of their 
united fate — for so it might prove — who could tell ? And 
Katharine gave herself up to the wild love-reverie of early 
youth. 

In the midst of it the door opened, and Lynedon himself 
stood by her side. 

Katharine had never seen him since the moment when, 
half insensible, she had felt herself borne in his arms from 
the chamber of death. Now, he came so suddenly into her 
presence that at the sight of him her heart seemed to sus- 
pend its beatings. Not a word came from her colorless 
lips, and the hand that Paul took between his own felt 
like marble. 

“ Dear Katharine, I fear I have startled you,” he said, 
anxiously ; “ but I so longed to see you. I never thought 


THE OGILVIES. 


79 


of all the past — this room, too — how foolish it was of 
me !” 

Katharine drooped her head and burst into tears. 

Paul’s kindly feelings were roused. He waited until 
Katharine’s emotion had somewhat exhausted itself, and 
then laid her head back on the cushion, smoothing her soft 
black hair with his hand as gently and soothingly as an 
elder brother or father might have done. 

“Poor Katharine, dear Katharine, you have suffered 
much ; but we will not think of it any more now. Let us 
talk about something else, and I will sit by you until you 
have quite recovered yourself. Do not grieve so much for 
him you have lost — think of those you have still. Katha- 
rine, dearest, think of all who love you.” 

A happy smile broke through Katharine’s tears, and a 
faint color flitted over her cheek. The words were very 
tender — made still more so by the inexpressible sweetness 
of the tone. What music there was at times in Paul Lyne- 
don’s voice ! No wonder it should echo in that poor self- 
deceiving heart like a celestial melody. 

The first tender impulse over, Mr. Lynedon seemed to 
think he had consoled her sufficiently, and resumed the 
ordinary tones of common life. 

“ I have not yet inquired after your father and mother ; 
they are well, I hope ? May I not see them to-day ?” 

“ Yes, certainly,” said Katharine. 

“ And your cousin — Miss Eleanor ?” Paul’s head here 
turned toward the fire, and his fingers busied themselves 
in playing with a loose tassel on the arm-chair. 

“ Eleanor is very well. I had a letter from her to-day.” 

“ A letter !” 

“ Yes ; she was sent for a week since by her old friend, 
Mrs. Breynton. She told me to say how sorry she was 
not to bid you adieu ; indeed, we half expected you every 
day last week.” 

A slight exclamation of vexed surprise rose to Paul’s 
lips, but he suppressed it, and only tore the tassel into 
small bits. No indication of what was in his mind con- 


80 


THE OGILVIES. 


veyed itself to Katharine’s ; she sat with her sweet, down 
cast eyes and trembling lips, drinking in nothing but deep 
happiness. 

For him, he concealed his disappointment, only saying, 
in a soft, earnest way, 

“How very, very sorry I am ! Nothing but the hard- 
est necessity could have made me stay away from Sum- 
merwood a whole fortnight. You believe that, Katha- 
rine ?” 

Katharine did not know whether to say yes or no. She 
was in a rapturous dream, whose light flooded and dazzled 
all her thoughts and senses. 

“ But you will forgive me, and ask your cousin to do the 
same when you write ? Will that be soon ?” 

“ Oh yes ; we write very often, Eleanor and I.” 

“ How pleasant !” said Paul Lynedon, while his thoughts 
flew far away, and the few words with which he tried to 
keep up the conversation only sufficed to make it more 
confused and broken. Katharine never noticed how ab- 
sent his manner grew. She was absorbed in the happiness 
of sitting near him, hearing him speak, and stealing glances 
now and then at his face. And perhaps, had she considered 
the matter at all, his silence would have only seemed an- 
other token of the blessed secret which she fancied she 
read in the deep tenderness of his words and manner. 

To him the time passed rather wearily: it was a duty 
of kindness and consideration, at first pleasant, then some- 
what dull — possibly it was a relief when fulfilled. To her, 
the bliss of a year — nay, of a lifetime — was comprised in 
that one half hour. At the moment it seemed a dizzy 
trance of confused joy, formless and vague ; but in after- 
hours it grew distinct ; each word, each look, each gesture 
being written on her heart and brain in letters of golden 
light, until at last they turned to fire. 

Hugh came in, looking not particularly pleased. Though 
he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul 
Lynedon’s chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt 
altogether free from a vague iealousy on Katharine’s ac- 


THE OGILVIES. 


81 


count. But the warmth with which his supposed rival 
met him quite reassured the simple-hearted, good-natured 
Hugh ; and while the two young men interchanged greet- 
ings, Katharine crept away to her own room. 

There, when quite alone, the full tide of joy was free to 
flow. With an emotion of almost child-like rapture she 
clasped her hands above her head. 

“It may come — that bliss! It may come yet!” she 
murmured ; and then she repeated his words — the words 
which now ever haunted her like a perpetual music — I 
almost love Katharine Ogilvief “It may be true — it 
must be; else he never would talk to me thus — look at 
me thus. For I — how could I hear such words, meet such 
looks, from any other man but he ! It must be true. He 
does love me. How happy am I !” 

And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her 
bosom, her head thrown back, the lips parted, the eyes 
beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Katharine 
caught a sight of her image in the opposite mirror. She 
was startled to see herself so fair. There is no beautifier 
like happiness, especially the happiness of love. It often 
seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary 
face and form. No wonder that under its influence Kath- 
arine hardly knew her own likeness. 

But, in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty 
stole over her. It was not vanity, but a passionate glad- 
ness that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She 
drew nearer ; she gazed almost lovingly on the bright 
young face reflected there, not as if it were her own, but 
as something fair and precious in his sight, which accord- 
ingly became the same to hers. She looked into the depths 
of the dark clear eyes — ah ! one day it might be his delight 
to do the same. She marked the graceful curves of the 
round white hand — the same hand which had rested in 
his : perhaps the time might come when it would rest 
there forever. “Blessed hand ! — oh dear, dear little hand 
of mine !” And she kissed it more than once, till she be- 
gan blushing at her own folly. 


82 


THE OGILVIES. 


Simple, child-like Katharine — a child in all but love — il 
thou couldst have died in that dream ! 

The sudden delirium of joy passed away, and left a still 
gladness which lighted up her eyes and trembled in her 
lips, making her whole countenance beautiful. As she 
went down to dinner, she passed the open door of the 
study, and entered it for a moment. How changed it 
seemed ! the memorial altar of Death had become the 
sanctuary of Love. A little, Katharine’s heart smote her; 
and a few tears fell, awakened by one sudden thought of 
him who was gone. But how could the dear, yet now 
faint memory of the dead contend with the fresh, glad 
fount of youth and first love that sprang up in her heart, 
filling it with sunshine and singing evermore, until the 
light and the music shut out all sorrowful sights and 
sounds, or changed them into joy. It could not be ; it 
never is so in this world. And Nature, who makes the 
greenest grass and the brightest flowers to grow over 
graves, thus teaches us that in this ever-renewed current 
of life there is deep wisdom and infinite love. 

Paul Lynedon staid all day. It was a day of quiet pleas- 
ure to every one. Mr. — or, as Paul found some difficulty 
in calling him, Sir Robert — Ogilvie was glad to have a talk 
about politics, and his lady was delighted that a visitor 
had at last arrived to break the formal gloom of a house- 
hold over which death had passed, but scarcely sorrow. 
Hugh had an engagement elsewhere. This fact, while Sir 
Robert took his after-dinner nap, cost Lady Ogilvie a long 
apology, which her guest thought infinitely more weari- 
some than the circumstance for which it was meant to 
atone. 

“ Though casting no reproach on your nephew’s agree- 
able society,” said the polite Lynedon, “ I assure you, my 
dear Lady Ogilvie, that I shall be quite content, and in- 
deed gratified, to have your daughter all to myself for a 
whole evening — such good friends as we are. Is it not so, 
Katharine?” and he took the young girl’s hand with the 
affectionate familiarity which he had established between 


THE OGILVIES. 


8a 

them. How bright, how joyful, were the answering blush 
and smile ! 

Paul Lynedon saw both. He was flattered at having so 
completely conquered the shyness of this young creature, 
who, in the intervals of his sudden passion for Eleanor, had 
at once interested, amused, and puzzled him. He could not 
but perceive the admiring reverence of himself which her 
whole manner unconsciously showed ; and a proud man 
likes to be worshiped and looked up to, especially by the 
other sex. To be sure, Katharine was still a mere child ; 
but there was something even in the devotion of a young 
girl that gratified his self-esteem and love of approbation 
— both very strong in Paul Lynedon. 

So his manner toward Katharine took a deeper and ten- 
derer meaning — more so than even he intended it should. 
Though the other fair image which he fancied so dear still 
lingered in his heart, and he was haunted all that evening 
with shadowy visions of Eleanor, still he talked to Katha- 
rine as men will idly talk, never dreaming that every low 
tone, every tender look, thoughtlessly lavished on an inter- 
esting girl, went deep to the most passionate recesses of a 
woman’s heart. 

After tea, Paul’s eyes wandered to the little recess where 
harp and piano stood. Perhaps his lover-like fancy conjured 
up there the sweet calm face and bending figure of Eleanor. 

“You feel dull without music. Is not that what you 
are thinking of?” inquired Katharine, timidly. 

A tacit prevarication, by which more tender consciences 
than Paul’s often deem it no wrong to compromise truth, 
enabled him to answer “Yes; I was wishing to ask you to 
sing, but did not like so soon after — ” and he stopped. 

Katharine looked grave, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Perhaps I ought not. Yet he always loved to see me 
happy, and he liked you so much ! Mr. Lynedon, I will 
try to sing if it will give you any pleasure. May I not, 
mamma ?” 

But Lady Ogilvie had gone comfortably to sleep in the 
inner drawing-room. 


84 


THE OGILVIES. 


Katharine sang — it was wonderful how much she had 
improved. Paul listened, praised, and made her try over 
all his favorites which Eleanor had sung to him. Katha- 
rine saw his earnest, almost abstracted look ; she knew not 
that he was touched less by the present than by recollec- 
tions of the happy past and vague plans for the future — a 
future now all centred in Eleanor Ogilvie. 

Under the influence of these thoughts and projects Paul 
felt happy. He took leave of the family, of Katharine espe- 
cially, with a cheerful, tender light in his eyes — those beau- 
tiful soft gray eyes, which at times were more eloquent than 
even his tongue. 

“ I am going a short journey, but I shall not be away 
long. A fortnight, at farthest, will see me again at Sum- 
mer wood.” 

“We shall be happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon,” said Sir 
Robert, cordially; “you see we make you quite one of the 
family.” 

“It is my greatest happiness,” answered Paul, with a 
delighted look, and a tone of deeper earnestness than 
Katharine had ever heard him use. It made her little 
heart flutter wildly. Quicker still it throbbed when Lyne- 
don entreated Sir Robert not to stir from the fireside. 
“ Your good-by and good-speed shall be the last, dear 
Katharine, if you will come with me to the door.” 

She did so, trembling all over. When they stood to- 
gether in the hall, he took both her hands in his, and held 
them there for a long time, looking down tenderly upon 
her agitated face. 

“You will think of me when I am away ?” he whispered. 

“Yes,” was all she could answer. 

“And you will remember me — you will love me — until 
I come again ?” 

This time no answer — none. But he saw that her slight 
frame quivered like a reed, and that the large limpid eyes 
which she raised to his, for one instant only, were swim- 
ming in tears. As he gazed, a thrill of pleased vanity, not 
unmingled with a deeper, tenderer feeling, came over Paul 


THE 0GILVIES. 


85 


Lynedon. With a sudden impulse — he was always gov* 
erned by impulses — he stooped down and kissed the tear- 
ful eyes, the trembling lips, which had silently betrayed so 
much. 

“ God bless you, Katharine — dearest Katharine !” were 
his last words. Their echoes rang through her life for 
years. 

Lynedon, as he rode home, felt rather annoyed that he 
had committed himself in this way. But he could not 
help it — she looked so pretty. And then, she was a mere 
child after all, and would be his little cousin soon, he hoped. 
With this thought he dismissed the subject, and the image 
of Katharine glided into that of Eleanor Ogilvie. 

But she — the young creature whom he left behind — 
stood there, absorbed in a trance of delirious rapture. 
She saw nothing — felt nothing — but the vanished face, 
and the touch that lingered on her lips and eyelids. It 
seemed as if with that kiss a new soul — his soul — had 
passed into her own, giving it a second life. She awoke 
as if in another world, feeling her whole being changed 
and sublimated. With her, every thing in existence now 
tended toward one thought, one desire, one passionate and 
yet solemn prayer — that she might one day be worthy to 
lay down her life, her love, her very soul at the feet of 
Paul Lynedon. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 

News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or marriage bells, 

And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock. 

Tennyson. 

There is, in one of the counties between Devon and 
Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of 
which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was until very 


86 


THE OGILYIES. 


lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of High- 
Churchism and Conservatism, political and moral. In old' 
en days it almost sacrificed its existence as a city for the 
cause of King Charles the Martyr, and ever since has kept 
true to its principles, or at least to that modification of 
them which the exigencies of modern times required. 
And the “ loyal and ancient” town — which dignifies itself 
by the name of city, though a twenty minutes’ walk would 
bring you from one extremity to the other — is fully alive 
to the consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very 
colony of Levites, who, devoted to the temple-service, shut 
out from their precincts any unholy thing. But this un- 
holiness is an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven’s. 
It means not merely what is irreligious, but what is un- 
genteel, unaristocratic, un-Conservative. 

Yet there is much that is good about the place and its in- 
habitants. The latter may well be proud of their ancient 
and beautiful city — beautiful not so much in itself as for 
its situation. It lies in the midst of a fertile and graceful- 
ly undulated region, and consists of a cluster of artistically 
irregular and deliciously old-fashioned streets, of which the 
nucleus is the cathedral. This rises aloft with its three 
airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have 
been christened the Ladies of the Yale. You may see 
them for miles and miles looking almost like a fairy build- 
ing against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an old- 
world look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet 
disturbed the sacred peace of its antiquity, and here and 
there you may see grass growing in its quiet streets, over 
which you would no more think of thundering in a modern 
equipage than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves 
of your ancestors. 

The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness 
and antique propriety. The people do every thing, as 
Boniface says, “soberly.” They have grave dinner-parties 
once or twice in the year ; a public ball as solemn as a fu- 
neral ; a concert now and then, very select and proper ; and 
so society moves on in a circle of polite regularities. The 


THE OGILVIES. 


81 


resident bishop is the sun of the system, around which 
deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries 
of all sorts revolve in successive orbits with their separate 
satellites. One character, one tone of feeling pervades ev- 
ery body. L is a city of serene old age. Nobody 

seems young there — not even the little singing-boys. 

But the sanctum sanctorum , the penetralia of the city, is 
a small region surrounding the cathedral, entitled the Close. 
Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, widows of departed 
deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chant- 
ed anthems on the accession of George III. -or on the down- 
fall of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of 
many cathedral functionaries, who pass their lives within 
the precincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings have im- 
bibed the clerical and dignified solemnity due to their 
neighborhood. It seems always Sunday in the Close ; and 
the child who should venture to bowl a hoop along its still 
pavement, or play at marbles on its door-steps, would be 
more daring than ever was infant within the verge of the 
city of L . 

In this spot was Mrs. Breynton’s residence. But it look- 
ed down with superior dignity upon its neighbors in the 
Close, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, inclosed by 
high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once been 
the bishop’s palace, and was a beautiful relic of the stately 
magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak-paneled 
and supported by pillars — noble staircases — recesses where 
proscribed traitors might have hid — gloomy bedchambers 
with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation of legions 
of ghosts — dark passages, where you might shiver at the 
echo of your own footsteps — such were the internal appear- 
ances of the house. Every thing was solemn, still, age- 
stricken. 

But without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigid- 
ity of age to the light, gladness, and freshness of youth. 
The lovely garden was redolent of sweet odors, alive with 
birds, studded with velvety grass-plots of the brightest 
green interwound by shady alleys, with here and there 


88 


THE 0GILV1ES. 


trees which hid their aged boughs in a mantel of leaves 
and flowers, so that one never thought how they and the 
gray pile which they neighbored had come into existence 
together. It was like the contrast between a human mind 
which the world teaches and builds on its own fading mod- 
el, and the soul of God’s making and nourishing which lives 
in His sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, never grows 
old, and bears flowers to the last. 

There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and 
hear no world-sounds to break its quiet except the chimes 
of the cathedral clock drowsily ringing out the hours. 
Now and then, at service-time, there would come a faint 
murmur of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy serv- 
ice with Nature’s eternal praises and prayers, and so blend- 
ing the spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the ex- 
pression, in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden ! 
No dream of fiction, but a little Eden of memory — let us 
rest a while in thy lovely shades before we people them 
with the denizens of this our self-created world. Oh, pleas- 
ant garden ! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie 
down on the green sloping bank under the magnificent old 
tree with its cloud of white blossoms (no poet-sung haw- 
thorn, but only a double cherry) — let us stroll along the 
terrace-walk, and lean against the thick low wall, looking 
down upon what was once the cathedral moat, but is now 
a sloping dell all trailed over with blackberries — let us 
watch the sunlit spires of the old cathedral in a quiet 
dreaminess that almost shuts out thought ! And, while 
resting under the shadow of this dream, its memorial pict- 
ures shall be made life-like to us by the accompaniment of 
solemn music, such as this : 

Oh earth, so full of dreary noises, 

Oh men, with wailing in your voices ; 

Oh delved gold — the wailer’s heap : 

Oh strife — oh tears that o’er it fall, 

God makes a silence through you all, 

And giveth His beloved sleep. 


THE O GIL VIES 


89 


CHAPTER XII. 

Of what quality was your love, then ? 

Like a fair house built upon another man’s ground, so that I have lost 
my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it.— Shakspeare. 

How ill doth he deserve a lover’s name 
Whose pale weak flame 
Can not retain 

His heart in spite of absence or disdain, 

But does at once, like paper set on fire, 

Burn, and expire. — Carew. 

It was scarcely possible to imagine a greater contrast 
than that between Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor Ogilvie. It 
was not the contrast of youth and age, or beauty and ugli- 
ness ; for the lady of the palace was certainly not very old, 
and might once have been decidedly handsome. But there 
was a line-and-plummet regularity, an angular preciseness, 
in Mrs. Breynton’s mind and person, that was altogether 
opposed to Hogarth’s curve of “ beauty and grace.” She 
was like a correct mathematical figure altogether made up 
of right lines. A bishop’s niece, a canon’s daughter, and a 
dean’s widow, she had lived all her life under the shadow 
of the cathedral walls. It was her world — she could im- 
agine no greater; and in it she had passed a life serene, 
sedate, unbroken, save by two shocks — the death of the 
dean, and an event yet more terrible, her only brother’s re- 
linquishment of the Church for the Army. The first she 
recovered in time ; the second she atoned for by bringing 
up that favorite brother’s orphan son to restore the credit 
of the family through the induction of surplice and band. 

The elder lady and her companion sat together in the 
breakfast-room. It was the only apartment in the house 
that was small enough to be comfortable, and this shadow 
of domestic coziness was taken away by one half of it being 
transformed by a glass partition-wall into a conservatory. 


90 


THE OGILVIES. 


But this conservatory was unlike most others, inasmuch as 
it had dead brick walls and high windows through which 
little light could penetrate, so that it looked as if the room 
had been made into a vegetable menagerie. 

Mrs. Breynton always made a rule of sitting still after 
breakfast for half an hour, during which time she read her 
letters, decided upon the day’s avocations, and knitted one 
square of an eternal counterpane that seemed likely to en- 
ter on its duties for the first time as the shroud of its cen- 
tenarian fabricator. 

“Eleanor, my dear!” said the measured tones of the 
Dean’s widow. 

Eleanor had entered the menagerie with the charitable 
intention of opening the window to give air to its occu- 
pants. 

“ My dear Eleanor !” repeated in a tone higher, made her 
turn round and answer the call. “ I merely wished to re- 
mind you that we never open the conservatory window 
until Easter, and it is now only the week before Lent.” 

Eleanor closed the window, looking compassionately at 
the poor orange-trees, which could drink in air and light 
only by rule and measure. She came into the breakfast- 
room, and sat watching the sunshine that struggled in. It 
rested on an old picture — the only one in the room — a por- 
trait of a rosy, golden-haired boy. The original was the 
Canon Francis Wychnor, whose monument stood in the 
cathedral nave. Could he have ever been a child ? 

Mrs. Breynton knitted another row in silence, and then 
observed, 

“ Eleanor, my reference to this season of Lent has made 
me remember how near it is to the Ember Weeks. I won- 
der I did not hear from Philip to-day.” 

Sudden blushes rarely came to Eleanor’s cheek ; her feel- 
ings were too well-governed and calm. But now she felt 
glad that she sat in the shade, for Mrs. Breynton’s thoughts 
had taken the same direction as her own. 

“ Perhaps he will write to-morrow,” was the very ordi- 
nary reply that she found herself able to make. 


THE OGILVIES. 


9] 


“ I hope so ; but he has rarely suffered Tuesday morn- 
ing to pass by ; and it would have been pleasant to me to 
know that he is quite prepared for taking orders.” 

“ This year — so soon !” 

“ Certainly, my dear. He was three -and -twenty last 
month — just in time. I have already spoken to the Bishop 
about the curacy of Wearmouth ; and old Mr. Vernon, the 
rector of that place, is not likely in course of nature to live 
more than two or three years. I consider that there are 
few young men with better prospects than my nephew ; 
and I think I may flatter myself on having been to a cer- 
tain degree instrumental in his well-being.” 

“ Indeed, he owes you much ! But I am sure, from what 
I know of Mr. Wychnor, that your kindness will be requited 
with interest.” 

A pleased though very frigid smile bent the thin lips of 
the Dean’s widow. “ I am quite satisfied that Philip will 
do credit to his family. I have no fault to find with him, 
except perhaps that he is not regular enough in his studies, 
and has a fancy for always carrying with him a volume or 
two of idle poetry — not quite the thing for a young clergy- 
man to read. But he will get over that ; and if he con- 
ducts himself well in his curacy, and marries to please me, 
as I have little doubt he will” (here Mrs. Breynton glanced 
approvingly at Eleanor’s gracefully-drooped head), “ why, 
then, Philip will have no cause to regret that he is my neph- 
ew. But it is already ten o’clock, and I have to speak to 
the gardener about transplanting some geraniums. Elea- 
nor, will you be kind enough to ring for Davis ?” 

Long after the old lady had attired herself, and been seen 
slowly traversing the garden walks, Eleanor sat musing on 
her latter words — “ If Philip marries to please me.” It 
was almost the first time she had ever heard the word mar- 
riage on Mrs. Breynton’s lips. The palace had always 
seemed a quiet, innocent paradise, wherein there was no 
mention of the one feeling which in society is often diluted 
into a meaningless and contemptible jest, or else made the 
cause of all strife, evil, and sorrow. Eleanor and Philip, 


92 


THE OGILYIES. 


shut up together like two young birds in this peaceful Eden, 
had glided into love, without any one’s taking apparent no- 
tice of the fact, and almost without knowing it themselves. 
The flower had sprung up in their hearts, and grown leaf 
by leaf, bud by bud, neither could tell how. No doubts 
and jealousies from the world outside had ever come be- 
tween them. Their perfect love was perfect trust — the 
deep faith between two beings who feel that they are 
formed for one another, and are united to the heart’s core. 
They never talked about their love. Philip made no dec- 
larations — Eleanor asked no vows ; and when they parted 
for the short visit at Summerwood, there was no formal 
farewell. Only, as they stood at the hall door, Philip press- 
ed her hand and said, 

“ Take care of yourself, Eleanor — my Eleanor ! — remem- 
ber you are mine — dearest to me of all the world.” 

Eleanor believed it, and felt from that moment that she 
was betrothed to him in heart and soul. She rested in the 
knowledge ; full of trust in him — in his true, earnest, noble 
nature. She had not thought much of the future until 
Mrs. Breynton’s words awakened a restlessness and an anx- 
ious looking-forward. Eleanor knew Philip’s heart better 
than any one, and she foreboded that all these projects for 
his future advantage were little likely to be seconded by 
him. She sat pondering for nearly an hour, when she was 
summoned into the drawing-room by the arrival of a visitor. 

It was the last person in the world whom she expected. 

“Mr. Lynedon, this is indeed a surprise !” cried Eleanor. 

There was a slight confusion in his manner, which was 
very soon reflected in hers, for just at that moment Mrs. 
Breynton entered. The extreme frigidity of her reception 
was enough to produce an uncomfortable feeling in any 
maiden of nineteen who has to introduce a strange gentle- 
man — arrived, apparently, without any object but that of 
seeing herself. 

“ Mrs. Breynton, this is Mr. Lynedon, a friend of my un- 
cle Ogilvie’s, who was staying at Summerwood. I believe 
I spoke of him.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


93 


“ I have not the slightest recollection of the fact, my 
dear ; but any friend of yours or of Sir Robert Ogilvie’s is 

welcome to my house. Pray be seated, Mr. . Excuse 

me, Eleanor, but I did not catch the gentleman’s name.” 

“Lynedon,” answered Paul, somewhat disconcerted by 
the cold, penetrating gaze of Mrs. Breynton. However, he 
made an effort and recovered his self-command. “ I bear 
credentials from Summerwood which I hope will atone for 
this intrusion — a few books which Miss Ogilvie was send- 
ing to her cousin. Happening to propose a journey which 
would lead me through your city, I volunteered to deliver 
them. Perhaps this offer was hardly disinterested, as I 
was glad of any excuse to stay and see your beautiful ca- 
thedral.” 

Mrs. Breynton began to thaw. To praise “our cathe- 
dral,” and manifest interest therein, was a certain road to 
her favor. From the few words which she answered, Paul 
Lynedon was sharp-sighted enough to discover this, and he 
followed up his game with great patience and ingenuity. 
While Eleanor examined the books he brought, he talked 
the Dean’s lady into the best of humors. She took him to 
the window which looked on the cathedral yard — explain- 
ed its architecture from top to bottom — and finally, delight- 
ed with the interest that he evinced and with his evident 
antiquarian lore — Paul was the cleverest of tacticians in 
displaying every whit of his knowledge — she invited her 
unexpected guest to stay to luncheon. 

“ Then, Eleanor, my dear, we can afterward show the ca- 
thedral to Mr. Lynedon, since he seems to admire it so 
much. I mention this, Mr. Lynedon, because under my es- 
cort you will be able to see the Ladye Chapel, the vaults, 
and other interesting parts, where visitors are not admitted 
in general ; but I, as connected with the cathedral — ” 

“ Of course, my dear madam; how fortunate that I have 
the pleasure of an introduction from one so important as 
yourself,” said Paul Lynedon, trying not to smile at the 
clerical pride of this relative of so many departed dignita- 
ries. His tendency for delicately polite satire became al- 
7 


94 


THE OGILVIES. 


most irrepressible, until in the midst of his pretended def- 
erence he caught Eleanor’s eyes fixed on him. The re- 
proach thus given he felt, and stopped immediately. 

Excited by her presence, Paul’s longing to unfold his 
love and receive its requital grew stronger than ever. He 
tried every expedient that courtesy could either sanction 
or conceal in order to get the old lady out of the room. 
But Mrs. Breynton had boen brought up in the old-world 
school of proprieties, and had no idea of leaving a young 
lady and gentleman alone together for five minutes unless 
they were plighted lovers. So, during two interminable 
hours, Paul had not an opportunity of exchanging one word 
with Eleanor except on the most trivial subjects, and even 
then Mrs. Breynton’s quick black eyes followed him with 
a hawk-like pertinacity that was any thing but pleasant. 

Paul grew quite nervous. “ It will come to a letter after 
all, and I hate the idea of a proposal in ink. Confound that 
stupid old woman !” thought he, while the impetuosity of 
his character foamed and boiled under the check he was 
forced to put upon it. 

At last Mrs. Breynton proposed to visit the cathedral. 

“ Pray, do not let me encroach upon you too much,” said 
Paul ; “ the verger will show me — or if Miss Ogilvie would 
favor me so far.” 

His eyes turned toward Eleanor — so did Mrs. Breynton’s; 
but there was not the shadow of a love-mystery suggested 
in that calm, mild face. 

“ Indeed, Mr. Lynedon, I should be very glad to act as 
your guide, only Mrs. Breynton knows so much more than 
I do about these curious old monuments. However, we 
will both go with you.” 

“ Certainly, Eleanor,” acquiesced Mrs. Breynton, with an 
air of complete reassurance ; while Paul forced his hand so 
precipitately into his glove that he tore it completely in 
two. But, as if the favoring stars looked with pity on the 
vexed lover, it so chanced that the Bishop’s lady drove up 
to the gates just as the three were setting out. Mrs. Breyn- 
ton was forced to return, and Paul found himself alone with 
Eleanor, 


THE OGILYIES. 


95 


Who ever wooed 

As in his boyish hope he would have done ? 

asks the poet — and poets are in nine cases out of ten the 
only truth-speakers. Paul Lynedon suddenly discovered 
that he had not a word to say. Eleanor — quiet, composed, 
unconscious Eleanor — had all the talk to herself. She ex- 
erted her memory to the utmost in order to explain every 
thing. Paul listened assentingly — walked beside her — 
looked where she directed — but whether she were show- 
ing him Newgate or Westminster Abbey, it would have 
been quite impossible for him to tell. When they came 
out, a sudden fear urged him to make the most of the time. 

“ Do not let us go in yet. I should like to see the view 
from the terrace you spoke of,” he said, hurriedly. 

They walked to the garden terrace. 

“ I really am much obliged to you for being Katharine’s 
messenger ; it was so kind and thoughtful of her to make 
me this present — and to choose such nice books, too,” ob- 
served Eleanor. 

Paul felt that he must “ do or die.” He stood still in his 

walk, took her hand, and said, in a deep, low whisper, 

“ Miss Ogilvie, you are mistaken ; Katharine never sent 
those books — it was but my excuse for seeing you. I can 
not live any longer without saying ‘ Eleanor, I love you !’ 
Why do you start — why do you turn away ? Eleanor, you 
must hear me — you must answer me.” 

She could not ; indeed, he hardly allowed her time, but 
went on rapidly, 

“You were so kind, so gentle, when we were at Sum- 
merwood, I thought you might love me, or would let me 
teach you to do so in time. Eleanor, is it so? tell me; or, 
have I deceived myself?” 

Her reply was the one word — “Yes !” 

Paul Lynedon did not answer. He leaned against the 

wall, and covered his face. Eleanor, startled and pained, 
was also silent. They stood thus for some minutes. At 
last she said, with some agitation, 

“ Indeed, indeed, I had no idea of this. Mr. Lynedon* 
you do not think I deceived you ?” 


96 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ No, no — it was my own madness,” muttered Paul ; “ the 
fool I was, to think I had read a woman’s heart ! Well ! it 
will be a lesson to me. Miss Ogilvie, I trust you will par- 
don me,” he said, in a tone that savored more of wounded 
pride than of heart-broken love. 

“Pardon you! I owe you pardon, if by any means I 
have made you unhappy. But I do not think I shall — at 
least not for long. Forgive me. I like and esteem you 
very much. I do indeed.” 

That soft voice touched Paul’s heart, even amid the an- 
gry bitterness that was rising there. 

“ For heaven’s sake, Miss Ogilvie, tell me why you reject 
me ! Is it simply because I have been so hasty that I have 
not given you time to love me ? or, do you love another ?” 

A deep crimson rose to Eleanor’s very brow T . Paul saw 
the blush, and understood it. His pride took arms against 
his lingering love, and drove it from the field. 

“You need not speak — I am answered. Believe me, I 
wish to intrude on no man’s privileges. Let me hope that 
you will forget this unfortunate betrayal of feelings which 
you do not return, and accept my best wishes for your hap- 
piness. Look! I see Mrs. Breynton at the window; shall 
we retrace our steps ? I w T ish to heaven it could be done 
in more ways than one,” added the rejected lover in a bit- 
ter “ aside,” which Eleanor’s agitation prevented her from 
hearing. If she had, it might have saved her gentle heart 
from many a painful thrill of womanly pity, and shown her 
how rootless and how easily extinguished is the love that 
springs up suddenly in the breast of a proud and impetu- 
ous man, and with the thwarting of its own selfish impulse 
as quickly dies away. No man who loves w r orthily, how- 
ever hopelessly, will mingle bitterness and anger with his 
sorrow, or say to the sunbeams under whose brightness he 
has walked for a time, “ I would ye had never shone !” 

Eleanor and Lynedon re-entered the house in silence. 
Mrs. Breynton looked at them with a politely-qualified cu- 
riosity ; but the answer to her penetrating inquiry appeared 
sufficiently satisfactory, for she took no notice of the dis* 


THE OGILVIES. 


97 


covery. And the reverend and reverenced shadow of the 
Bishopess still rested on the good lady, who felt herself 
bound to reflect upon all around the high dignity and hon- 
or of this visit, shutting out every minor consideration. 

“ I shall be always happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon,” she 
said, replying to her guest’s hurried adieu with a stately 
politeness; “I regret that my nephew, Mr. Wychnor, is 
not here, but we expect him shortly.” 

Paul glanced at Eleanor. In the drooped head — in the 
bright rosy dye which suffused the very throat — he read 
the secret of his rejection. He turned hastily away, and 
his hurried strides resounded heavily down the pavement 
of the Close. There was a little child playing in his path 
— he drove the frightened boy aside with a fiery glance 
and a command that sounded almost like an execration. 
Spirit of true and pure Love — even though sorrow-veiled 
— couldst thou have been in his soul and suffered this ? 

“Well! he is the strangest young man I ever knew, 
this Mr. Paul Lynedon,” was Mrs. Breynton’s comment as 
she watched him from the window of the palace. “ Really, 
Eleanor — ” 

But Eleanor had left the room to relieve her troubled 
heart with a gush of pent-up tears. This sudden knowl- 
edge of another’s love had unveiled to her more complete- 
ly the depths of her own, and shown her how her whole 
soul was bound up in Philip Wychnor. And no matter in 
how happy and hopeful a light this consciousness may 
come, there is always something solemn — almost fearful — 
to a woman who thus stands, as it were, on the brink of a 
life-destiny, feeling that in the future nothing can be per- 
fectly sure or clear but the faithful love in her own heart. 
Yet that love is her fairest omen — her safest anchor — her 
chiefest strength, except in Heaven ! 

And while Eleanor lingered alone, in thoughtful musings 
that were almost prayers, and while Paul Lynedon dashed 
forward on his way in angry sorrow, determined to travel 
abroad, and so crush out of his heart every memory of his 
slighted love, Mrs. Breynton, good, easy soul, sat dozing 


98 


THE OGILVIES. 


over her netting, and thinking how very condescending 
was the new Bishop’s lady — when the first invitation to 
dinner would arrive — and whether she should wear the 
black velvet or the Irish poplin. 

Oh, youth ! with thy fiery heart — which, after all, is near- 
est to Heaven in the nobleness that thrills through its 
wildest beatings — canst thou ever freeze into such a dead, 
dull calm as this? 


CHAPTER XIII. 

I ask no vengeance from the powers above ; 

All I implore is, never more to love : 

Let me this fondness from my bosom tear, 

Let me forget that e’er I thought her fair. 

Lyttelton. 

Passions are likened best to floods and streames, 

The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb ; 

So, when affections yield discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 

Raleigh. 

Lynedox strode through the quiet grass-grown streets 

of L , his feet winged by the impetuous anger of a 

thwarted will. Despite the impulse of this sudden pas- 
sion, it had cost him considerable effort before the gay and 
courted man of the world could resolve to give up his lib- 
erty, and immolate himself on the matrimonial shrine for 
any woman soever. And now the heroic resolution was 
wholly vain — the momentous sacrifice was rejected as an 
unvalued offering. The first absolute proposal of marriage 
with which Paul Lynedon had ever honored the sex had 
been refused ! And by whom ? By a simple country girl, 
who had, he now thought, neither beauty nor fascinations 
of manner, nor —fortune. 

He remembered that last circumstance now, though, to 
do Paul justice, he had not considered it before — for he 
was not a mercenary man. Even while it stung his pride, 
it brought a faint consolation to his sense of worldly wis* 


THE 0GILVIES. 


99 


dora. It had certainly saved him from perpetrating a 
most improvident marriage. He “ laid the flattering unc- 
tion to his soul,” but it proved only a temporary balm; 
the sting still remained — wounded pride — selfish, angry 
sorrow, like that of a child over a lost toy — and perhaps a 
deeper, purer feeling, which regretted the vanished spell 
of that gentle woman’s nature, under which every better 
impulse of his own had been reawakened. That which he 
had felt was not the real love, the one sole love of life; but 
no man could have entered even within the shadow of Ele- 
anor Ogilvie’s influence without some true, deep chords be- 
ing sounded in his heart — and from their silence came the 
pain, the only sincere and virtuous pain, which Paul Lyne- 
don experienced. To lull it, he walked for miles across the 
country, striving by physical exercise to deaden the ex- 
citement of his mind. 

It was a lovely region through which he passed — all 
woodland or pasture-grounds — but the young man saw 
nothing. Nature — pure, unalloyed nature, was rarely his 
delight : his perceptions, though refined, were not simple 
enough to relish such pleasures. Now, he only felt that 
the roads were insufferably muddy and the fields hatefully 
quiet. He did not marvel at the taste of a woman brought 
up in such scenes ; he only cursed his own folly for ever 
having seen any charm in rural innocence. He would es- 
chew such sentimentality in future ; he would go back to 
the gay, care-drowning world — plunge in London life — or, 
what seemed far better, travel abroad once more. 

Under this impulse he sprang on a coach that was then 
passing, caring little whither it bore him, so that it was far 
away from L . 

Lynedon intrenched himself in proud reserve beside the 
coachman, and scarcely answered, even in monosyllables, 
when this individual — a character in his way — civilly point- 
ed out many a lovely pastoral view, among which, from 
every point, the “Ladies of the Yale” could be seen airily 
towering in the clear sky. With melancholy emphasis did 
the foreboding hero of the whip point out the line where 


LofC. 


100 


THE OGILVIES. 


the threatened railway was to traverse this beautiful cham- 
paign, and bring at last the evil spirit of reform and prog- 
ress into the time-honored sanctity of the cathedral town. 
But Lynedon hated the very name of the place. All that 
he noticed in his neighbor’s conversation was the atrocious 

S shire accent ; and he came to the conclusion that the 

English peasantry were the rudest in the world. 

At last, Paul’s mind began to settle into a few straight- 
forward resolves with regard to his future proceedings. 
The coach was bearing him toward London ; but could he 
go there, within reach of the sneers of the already suspect- 
ing Mrs. Lancaster? No; he would pretend urgent affairs, 
and rush abroad; and, to do this, he must first go home. 

Home ! It was a rare word in Paul Lynedon’s vocabu- 
lary. Vei’y few of his friends knew of its existence at all ; 
and he never sought to enlighten their ignorance, for, in 
fact, he was considerably ashamed of the place. 

The penultimate descendant of the time-honored Lyne- 
don race had sought to redeem his fortunes by trade. 
Paul’s father had been a cotton-manufacturer. The mod- 
erate fortune which now enabled the son to take his stand 
in that sphere to which his birth entitled him had sprung^ 
from the red-brick mill, with its black windows, its ever- 
dinning wheels. This grim phantom had been the horror 
of Paul Lynedon’s youth : it haunted him even yet. Per- 
haps, had his better self gained free play, he would not 
have so wholly sought to stifle the remembrance of the 
spot where, years before, the aristocratic father, equally 
proud, but yet noble in his pride, had put his hand to the 
work, and never once looked back until he had replaced 
ancestral wealth by the wealth of industry. Paul’s con- 
science, and his appreciative reverence for virtue, acknowl- 
edged all this, but he had not strength of mind to brave 
the world and say so. 

Therefore, while he would not part with the simple 
dwelling where his gray-haired father and his fair young 
mother had both died, and where his sister and himself had 
spent their orphaned childhood, still Lynedon rarely al- 


THE OGILVIES. 


101 


luded to his “home,” and scarcely ever visited it. The 
distant sound of the horrible cotton-mill, now long since 
passed into other hands, almost drove him wild yet. No 
head with brains could endure the din. On his rare visits, 
he usually made a circuit of half a mile to avoid it. He 
did so now, notwithstanding the weariness caused by his 
long night-journey. At last, in the sunshine of early morn- 
ing, he stood by his own door. 

It had originally been a straight-staring, plain-fronted 
house, of the eternal red brick peculiar to the manufactur- 
ing districts. But the builder’s want of taste was conceal- 
ed by the late owner’s possession of that graceful quality. 
Over the staring front were trained ivy, clematis, and vine, 
converting it into a very bower of greenery ; and amid the 
formal garden had been planted quick-growing lime-trees, 
that now formed “ pleached alleys” wherein even poets or 
lovers — the true honey-bees of all life’s pleasure-flowers — 
might delight to walk. 

As Paul Lynedon passed hastily through these, he 
thought for a moment how, when the trees were growing, 
he and his little sister had used to play at hide-and-seek 
* among them. He wished that the bright, curly-tressed 
head had been peeping out from among the branches, and 
smiling a womanly, sisterly welcome from the barred and 
lonely doorway. The first time for many months, he re- 
membered a little green mound beside the stately bury- 
ing-place of the Lynedons — far away. Paul sighed, and 
thought that he might have been a better and a happier 
man if poor little Alice had lived to be a woman. 

He roused his old housekeeper ; but when she came, at 
the first look of her sour, grumbling face, he hastily dismiss- 
ed her. In the long-deserted house was neither chamber 
nor bed prepared ; so he stretched himself on a sofa, and 
tried to forget past, present, and future in a most welcome 
slumber. 

This deep sleep lasted for several hours. Lynedon awoke 
with the afternoon sun staring right into his face, together 
with a couple of human optics belonging to a young man 

E 2 


102 


THE OGILVIES. 


who sat near him and maintained an equally pertinacious 
gaze. This individual held, likewise, his evidently medical 
fingers on the sleeper’s wrist, while from his other hand 
dangled the orthodox M.D.’s watch. It fell to the ground 
when Paul started up with an energy very unlike a pa- 
tient’s. 

“My good friend — my dear Lynedon — well, I thought 
there could be nothing much the matter with you.” 

“ Who imagined there was ?” 

“ Why, that good old soul your housekeeper, who said 
you slept so heavily at first, and then began to talk so wild- 
ly, she was sure you were mad, or had taken poison, and so 
fetched me.” 

“Pshaw! Well, I am very glad to see you, doctor,” 
said Paul, rousing himself, and trying to shake ofl‘ the rush 
of painful and mortifying thoughts that came with his 
awaking. He could not do this altogether; and it was 
with considerable effort that he forced his features into a 
polite smile while he listened to the talk of his old college 
chum, who, on giving up the sermon for the recipe, had 
been considerably indebted to Lynedon’s kindness for a 
start in life. 

“ I am sure I hope you are coming to settle among us, or 
at least to stay a long time,” said Dr. Saville. 

Paul’s face darkened. “ No ; I shall be off in a day or 
two for the Continent. I don’t care when I come back. I 
hate England.” 

“ Really — how very odd ! what can be the reason ?” was 
the simple remark of the most commonplace of country 
doctors. 

“ Never mind, my good fellow,” said Paul, rather sharp- 
ly. “Don’t talk about myself; I am sick of the subject. 
Speak about any other affairs — your own, for instance; 
doubtless far more interesting to both parties.” 

“ Thank you, Lynedon, you are very kind ;” and the 
chattering, weak-minded, but good-natured physician held 
forth for a long time on the inane topics current in the 
neighborhood. At last he glided on to his own peculiar 


THE OGILVIES. 


103 


affairs, and, after a while, gathered courage to convey to 
his old friend and patron the important information that 
he was about to marry. 

“ If you do you are a confounded fool,” cried Lynedon, 
with an energy that made the little doctor tremble on his 
chair. “ I beg your pardon, Saville,” he added, trying to 
laugh off the matter ; “ you don’t know what women are 
—not so well as friend Maro. Remember, 

Varium et mutabile semper 

Foemina. 

The old fellow was not far wrong, eh ? They are all alike.” 

“ Except my Lizzie ! oh, no ! I’m quite sure of Lizzie 
and he began to dilate contentedly on a future rendered 
certain by its humble hopes and limited desires. Paul was 
touched ; it formed such a contrast to his selfish sorrow 
and mortified pride. He listened with a feeling very like 
envy to the bridegroom-expectant’s account of his already 
furnished house, his neat garden — Lizzie liked flowers — his 
little gig, wherein he could go his professional rounds, and 
drive Lizzie to see her mother on a Sunday. In the midst 
of this quiet, monotonous stream of talk, the worthy doc- 
tor was startled by Paul’s suddenly springing up with the 

cr y> 

“ Upon my soul, Charles Saville, you are a happy man, 
and I am a most miserable one ! I wish to heaven that I 
were dead !” 

Lovers, and especially rejected lovers, are generally slow 
to communicate to any male friend the story of their suf- 
ferings. They will do so sometimes — nay, often, to a 
friend of the opposite sex. A woman makes the best con- 
fidante, after all; and perhaps, in such cases, womanly 
sympathy is the surest cure for a heart-wound. It is hard 
to account for the impulse that made Lynedon betray his 
feelings to his old friend, except from the fact that the sym- 
pathy of the worthy simple-minded doctor was most like 
that of a woman. Perhaps, too, the contrast in their pros- 
pects invited sympathy ; and Lynedon, having been the 
doctor’s patron, was disposed to like him, and to be more 


104 


THE OGILVIES. 


than usually communicative. But, however it chanced, 
most certainly Dr. Saville contrived to glean a great deal 
of information ; and by putting together names, incidents, 
and exclamations, to form a tolerable guess at a great deal 
more. In fact, if he did not arrive at the whole truth, he 
came very near it, and his prolific imagination easily sup- 
plied the rest. But he took care by a respectful reserve 
to avoid startling the sensitiveness of his patron ; and the 
promise of secrecy with which he bade Lynedon adieu he 
long and faithfully kept — except with regard to his “Lizzie.” 

Paul, left to himself, saw night close upon him in the 
lonely house. He felt more and more its desolation and 
his own. It was not so much the lost love, as the need of 
loving, which came upon him with such intense pain. He 
thought of the poor village doctor, poor in mind as in per- 
son, who yet could look forward to a bright hearth made 
happy by a mother’s blessing and a wife’s clinging arms. 
While he — the admired of many a circle — accustomed to 
the honeyed flatteries of many a fair lip which he knew to 
be false as his own — he, Paul Lynedon, stood alone, with 
not a single creature in the whole wide world to love him. 

“ Not one — not one !” As he despondently repeated the 
words, Lynedon’s eye fell upon a slip of paper which he 
had carelessly tossed out of his pocket-book. It was mere- 
ly a few verses — copied by his request — written out in a 
girlish hand, evidently trained into the most anxious neat- 
ness. It bore the date “ Summerwood,” and the signature 
“ Katharine Ogilvie.” 

As Paul unfolded the paper, his face brightened, and 
softened into tenderness. There came before him a vision 
of the dark eyes lifted, for one moment only, in sorrowing, 
yearning love — of the fair lips which had trembled beneath 
his own. 

“ Dear little girl — sweet little Katharine ! I think she 
does care for me — God bless her !” He felt almost inclined 
to kiss the paper, but stopped, reflecting with a half smile 
that she was such a child ! But even a child’s love was 
precious to him then. 


THE OGILVIES. 


105 


“ I should almost like to see her again before I leave Em 
gland,” thought Paul. “ But no — it would not do ! What 
excuse could I make for my sudden flight ? However, I 
will write.” 

He did write, as the impulse of the moment dictated. 
It was a letter which spoke, as his idle words had done be- 
fore, every thing except the positive declaration of love. 
Its deep tenderness — its half ambiguous expressions — its 
broken and altered sentences — were such as to thrill with 
happiness any young impassioned heart, that, once deceived 
into a fixed belief, judges every thing by its utter simplici- 
ty, and sees in all forms and shows of love the reflection of 
its own. Poor Katharine ! These outpourings of a mo- 
mentary feeling, forgotten by the writer ere they met the 
reader’s eye, what would they be to her ! 

Paul Lynedon knew not — thought not — cared not. A 
few weeks after he was mingling in the gayest salons of 
Paris, the pleasure and pain of the last three months hav- 
ing alike passed from his memory as though they had nev- 
er been. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

I have a more than friend 
Across the mountains dim ; 

No other voice to me is sweet 
Unless it nameth him ! 

We broke no gold — a pledge 
Of stronger faith to be, 

But I wear his last look in my soul, 

Which said, “ I love but thee !” 

T was betrothed that day : 

I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. 

E. B. Browning. 

There is hardly a man in the world who does net feel 
his pulse beat quicker when, after a short absence, he finds 
himself nearing home. A commonplace this — often said, 
often written ; but there are commonplaces, delicious, <*vei v 


106 


THE OGILVIES. 


fresh truths, which seem the daisies on the world’s high- 
way : it is hard not to stop and gather them sometimes. 
So, beginning with this trite saying, we may go on to re- 
mark that Philip Wychnor’s heart experienced a slight ad- 
ditional thrill when, riding through the grass-grown streets 

of L , he saw the evening sun emblazoning the palace 

windows, and felt that he was really “ coming home.” 

It is a rule with novelists — and a sterling one, in general 
— that you should never unveil your characters by elabo- 
rate descriptions of mind and person, but suffer them to 
develop themselves in the progress of the story ; shining 
down upon them until they unfold beneath the sunburst of 
your artistic skill, instead of pulling them open leaf by leaf 
with your fingers, and thus presenting to the reader your 
well-dissected bouquet of human heart-flowers. But in the 
present case we will waive the aforesaid excellent rule, for 
no reader could ever find out the inner character of Philip 
Wychnor from its outward manifestations in the routine 
of daily life. Not that he was deficient in exterior quali- 
ties to win regard. Most people liked him — or at least 
that half of his character which was most apparent — and 
said, as Hugh Ogilvie once did, that he was “ a good fellow 
enough.” There was but one in the world who thorough- 
ly understood him, who had looked into the depths of his 
soul. What need is there to say who was that one — pre- 
cious, loving, and beloved — on whom he rested, and from 
whom he drew comfort, strength, and peace? 

Philip W ychnor would never have made a hero, either 
in body or in mind — at least not one of your grand world- 
heroes who will overthrow an army or perform some act 
of self-devotion with which the heart of history throbs for 
a century after. But there is many a lauded martyr whose 
funeral pile is only a huge altar to self-glory, which the 
man’s own dying hands have reared. The true heroes are 
those whose names the world never hears, and never will 
hear — the blessed household martyrs who offer unto God 
the sacrifice, not of death’s one pang, but of life’s long pa« 
tient endurance — the holy ones who, through 


THE OGILVIES. 


107 


Love’s divine self-abnegation, 

attain the white robes and the ever-blooming palms of 
those who “ have passed through much tribulation.” 

Philp Wychnor might have been one of these. 

But, wearying of our “ was nots” and “might have beens,” 
you may ask, dear reader, what he was. A poet ? No ; he 
had scarcely ever strung together six consecutive rhymes. 
But his whole life was a poem ; so pure, so rich in all those 
dear charities and holy influences which create the poetry 
of this world. Some of earth’s truest poets are outwardly 
dumb, but their singing is like the music of the stars ; the 
angels hear it up in heaven. How glorious such unheard 
melody must be! Was he handsome? It might be; for 
genius rarely exists without casting over the outward frame 
a certain spiritual loveliness, and oftentimes soul and body 
grow linked together in an exquisite perfection, so that nei- 
ther materialist nor spiritualist would think of dissevering 
the one from the other. But the beauty of Philip Wych- 
nor’s face was too refined — almost too feminine — to attract 
general notice. Features regularly chiseled and delicate- 
ly small, shadowed by hair of a pale clear brown, in which 
somewhat rare tint no one could detect either the admired 
gold or the widely condemned red — a stature very reed- 
like, both as to height and slenderness — and that personal 
sign which in a man so often accompanies exquisite refine- 
ment of mind, a beautiful hand, comprise the external sem- 
blance of him whom we have hitherto seen only through 
the reflection of Eleanor Ogilvie’s love. 

Let him now stand alone in his real likeness, ungilded by 
even this love-sunshine ; a son of Adam, not perfect, but 
still nearer — ay, ten thousand times — to that grand image 
of true manhood than the many poor clay deities, the work 
of the tailor and the fencing-master, which draw silly maid- 
ens’ eyes in drawing-room or street. Stand forth, Philip 
Wychnor ! Raise thy face, sublime in its gentleness — with 
the pure lips through which the foul impieties of boasting 
youth never yet passed — with the eyes that have not scorn- 
ed at times to let their lashes droop over a tear of sympa* 


108 


THE OGILVIES. 


thy or of sorrow. Lift up thy hand, which never used its 
strength against a fellow-creature, and was not the less he- 
roic for that. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor, and show the 
world the likeness of a man ! 

He passed the iron gateway, sprang up the palace-steps 
with a speed worthy of an agile youth — and a lover ; in a 
minute the pleasant firelit room where Mrs. Breynton and 
Eleanor held their after-dinner chat was brightened by a 
presence welcome to both. How doubly so to one ! A 
good and kind, if not an affectionate aunt, was Mrs. Breyn- 
ton ; and perhaps now as much warmth as her nature own- 
ed was expressed in the solemn salutation which Philip’s 
forehead received. And then came the dear, close, linger- 
ing hand-pressure of meeting and welcome — so silent, yet 
so full of all faithful assurance — between two who to their 
inmost hearts knew, loved, and trusted one another. 

After even a few months of separation, it always takes a 
space of desultory talk before the dearest friends settle 
down into the quiet satisfaction of meeting. So the con- 
versation around that dear fireside at the palace was rather 
restless and wandering, both as to the topics discussed and 
as to the way in which they were sustained. Philip found 
himself listening to, or at least hearing with his outward 
ears, the full, true, and particular account of the new bish- 
op’s first sermon, and his lady’s first call. It showed either 
surprising forgetfulness or true womanly tact in Mrs. Breyn- 
ton, that in her lengthened recital of that day’s events she 
made no allusion to Mr. Paul Lynedon. 

“By-the-by, my dear Philip, as you did not write, I 
scarcely expected you home quite so soon.” 

“ I myself hardly looked for such a pleasure until yes- 
terday, when I found I could leave. And you know, Aunt 
Breynton, that I never lose any time in coming to see you,” 
answered the young man, affectionately. 

A pleased, though rather a sedate smile marked the ac- 
knowledgments of Aunt Breynton ; and then her mind 
turned suddenly to the melancholy fact that no household 
preparation was made for the visitor. 


THE OGILVIES. 


109 


“ This, you see, my dear nephew, is the result of not do- 
ing things regularly. Had you written the day before, we 
should have had your room ready ; but now I fear you will 
have to sleep without curtains. And I dare say you have 
not dined, and the cook is gone to bed, most likely.” 

Philip protested against the accusation of hunger, though 
he was quite unable to recollect whether he had dined or 
not. Thereupon he was obliged to listen to a few argu- 
ments concerning the necessity of taking care of his health 
and the evil of long fasting. At last Mrs. Breynton’s do- 
mestic anxiety could no longer restrain itself, and she rose 
to quit the room. As she passed the door, she unfortu, 
nately spied on a chair the hat and gloves which her nephew 
had thrown down on his entry. She could not resist the 
opportunity. 

“Philip !” 

Philip started from an earnest gaze at the drooping pro- 
file which was reflected against the firelight, and opened 
the door for the old lady. The act of politeness disarmed 
her; she liked the grave courtesies of old, and the long lec- 
ture resolved itself into — 

“ Thank you, Philip. Now oblige me by ringing for the 
footman to take away these.” She pointed to the offend- 
ing intruders on the neatness of her drawing-room, and 
sailed majestically away, the very genius of tidiness. 

Dear Eleanor and Philip ! young, simple-hearted lovers ! 
such as the wide world’s heart has ever yearned over in 
song or story — ay, and ever will — how did they look at, 
how speak to each other ? They did neither. They stood 
by the fire — for she had risen too — stood quite silent, until 
Philip took first one hand, then both, in his. 

“ Eleanor, are you glad to see me ?” 

“ Glad, Philip !” was the low reply — only an echo, after 
all ; but the clear, pure eyes were raised to his with a full- 
ness of love that gave all the answer his own sought. He 
lifted her hands — he drew them, not unwilling to be thus 
guided, around his neck, and folded to his bosom his be- 
trothed. It was the silent marriage -vow between two 
8 


110 


THE OGILVIES. 


hearts, each of which felt for the first time the other’s puie 
beatings; a vow not less sacred than the after one, with 
joined hands before the altar; a solemn troth-plight, which, 
once given and received in sincerity and true love, no earth- 
ly power ought ever to disannul. 

And surely the angels who sang the marriage-hymn of' 
the first lovers in Eden cast down on these their holy eyes 
— ay, and felt that holiness unstained by the look. For 
can there be in this world aught more sacred than two be- 
ings who stand together, man and woman — heart-betroth- 
ed, ready to go forth hand in hand, in glad yet solemn 
union, on the same journey, toward the one eternal home ? 

O God, look down upon them ! O God, bless them, and 
fill them with love, first toward Thee and then toward one 
another ! Make them strong to bear gladly and nobly the 
dear burden which all must take who, in loving, receive 
unto them another soul with its errors and its weaknesses. 
Such — in their silent hearts — ay, even amid the joy of 
their betrothal — was the prayer that Eleanor and Philip 
prayed. 

♦ 

When Mrs. Breynton returned, she found the hat and 
gloves lying precisely where she had left them ; and 
through the half-opened inner door she caught a glimpse 
of Eleanor’s black dress gliding up the staircase, while 
Philip stood with his face to the fire, trying with all his 
might to commit the enormity of whistling in a drawing- 
room. How all these conflicting elements were finally 
reconciled is not on record ; but the fact is certain that, in 
honor probably of her nephew’s return, the good old lady 
sat up talking with him until past eleven o’clock, and, for 
the first time in her life, quite forgot to call the servants 
to family devotions. Moreover, as she passed Eleanor’s 
room, she entered, kissed her on both cheeks, and went 
away without a word save a fervent “ God bless you !” 
Perhaps the one heartfelt blessing rose nearer to heaven 
than leaden-winged formal prayers would ever have climb- 
ed. 


THE OGILYIES. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XV. 

Has it never occurred to us, when surrounded by sorrows, that they may 
be sent to us only for our instruction, as we darken the cages of birds 
when we wish to teach them to sing ? — Jean Paul. 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 

Or the death they bear, 

The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove, 

With the wings of care. 

In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 

Shall mine cling to thee, 

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 

It may bring to thee. — S helley. 

“ And now, my dear children, let us talk of your pros- 
pects in the world,” said Mrs. Breynton, gravely, when, 
after a long day, happy indeed, but somewhat restlessly 
spent by all three, they sat once more in the pleasant fire- 
light, as they had done the evening before. The only dif- 
ference was that Philip now ventured to sit on the same 
side of the fire as Eleanor, and in the shadowy flicker of 
the blaze it would have been impossible to tell precisely 
what had become of her hand. Still, the right, true, and 
worthy owner of that little hand probably knew, and no 
one else had any business to inquire. 

Mrs. Breynton found it necessary to repeat her observa- 
tion, slightly varied : “ I wish, my dear nephew, and niece 
that will be, to talk seriously about your plans for the fu- 
ture. When do you propose to marry ? and what do you 
propose to marry upon ?” 

These point-blank questions rather startled Philip and 
his affianced. Few lovers, especially young lovers, amid 
the first burst of deep happiness, stay to think at all of 
those commonplace things, house-furnishing, house-keep- 
ing, yearly income, and such like. A little Eleanor had 
mused, perhaps more than most young girls, on the future 
time, when — the enthusiastic devotion of the lover merged 


112 


THE OGILVIES. 


in the still affection of the husband — it would be her part 
less to be ministered unto than to minister, surrounding 
him with all comfort and love in the dear, quiet, blessed 
home — their home. But Philip, the dreamer, still unac- 
quainted with the realities of life, had never thought of 
these things at all. They came upon him almost bewilder* 
ingly ; and all the answer he could make to his aunt’s ques- 
tion was the very unsatisfactory one, “I really do not know.” 

Mrs. Breynton looked from one to the other in digni- 
fied reproof. “ This, I must say, is the evil of young peo- 
ple’s arranging their matrimonial affairs for themselves. 
Nobody ever did so in my day. Your excellent uncle, the 
Dean, furnished the house down to the very stair-carpets 
before he even asked me to marry him. And you, Philip, 
I dare say, have not even thought in what county of En- 
gland you intend to settle ?” 

Philip acknowledged he had not. Oh, blessed Present, 
that with its golden light can so dim and dazzle the eyes 
as to make them scarcely desire to look further, even into 
a happy future ! 

Mrs. Breynton tried to lecture gravely upon improvi- 
dent and hasty marriages ; it was her way. And yet she 
had lain awake since seven o’clock that morning, calcula- 
ting how much income the curacy of Wearmouth would 
bring in yearly, and what it would take to furnish that 
pretty cottage next to the rectory ; nay, she had even set- 
tled the color of the drawing - room curtains, and was 
doubtful only whether the carpet should be Axminster or 
Brussels. But she loved to dictate and reprove, and then 
sweep gracefully round laden with advice and assistance. 

Thus, after a due delay, she unfolded all her kindly pur- 
poses, dilating with an earnestness and clerical apprecia- 
tion worthy of the Dean’s lady on the promised curacy, 
and the living inprospectu with its great advantages, viz., 
the easy duty, large Easter offerings, plenty of glebe-land, 
and a nobleman’s seat close by, the owner of which was de- 
voted to the Church, and always gave practical marks of 
his respect by dinners and game. 


THE OGILVIES. 


113 


“ I think, Philip,” continued she, “ that nothing could be 
more fortunate. I have the Bishop’s word for your suc« 
ceeding to the curacy immediately on your taking orders; 
and — though I mean no disrespect to good Mr. Vernon — if 
he should die in a year or two, as in the course of nature 
he must, you will meanwhile have an opportunity of show- 
ing his Grace what an agreeable neighbor he might secure 
by presenting you with the living.” 

Had the worthy dame been able to read her nephew’s 
face, as well as those gentle eyes which were now lifted to 
it with anxious tenderness, she would have seen in the 
grave, almost sad expression which came over it, how lit- 
tle the young, earnest nature sympathized with the world- 
ly-minded one. Philip’s honest foot would never have en- 
tered the tainted Paradise she drew. Respect restrained 
his tongue, as it had done many a time before ; but Elea- 
nor read in his silence what his thoughts were. Honor be 
to the unselfish and true womanly impulse which prompt- 
ed her to press fondly and encouragingly the hand where- 
in her own lay — as if to say, “ Stand fast, my beloved ; do 
that which is right ; I am with you through all.” It was 
the first taking upon herself of that blessed burden of love 
which through life’s journey they were to bear for one an- 
other. Philip leaned in spirit upon the helpmate God had 
given him. He grew strong, and was comforted. 

“Dear aunt,” he said, gently, “you are very good to 
think of all these things, but I feel by no means sure that I 
shall ever take orders.” 

“Not take orders! when you have all your life been 
studying for the Church ?” cried Mrs. Breynton, lifting up 
her eyes with the most intense astonishment. “Philip 
Wychnor! what can you mean?” 

“I mean,” said Philip, slowly and firmly, though in a 
tone low and humble as a child’s, “ that for the last year I 
have thought much and deeply of the life apparently be- 
fore me. I have seen how the sanctity of the Church is 
profaned by those servants who, at its very threshold, take 
either an utterly false vow, or one only half understood 


114 


THE OGILVIES. 


and wholly disregarded. I dare not lay upon my soul this 
sin.” 

Mrs. Breynton’s temperament was too frigid to be often 
disturbed by violent passion; but it was easy to see, from 
the restless movements of her fingers and the sudden 
twitching of her thin, compressed lips, how keenly she was 
agitated by her nephew’s words. 

“ Then, sir,” she said, after a pause, “ you are about to in 
form me that you have followed the example of other wild, 
misguided young men, and dissented from the Establish- 
ment ; in short, that you no longer believe in our Holy 
Church.” 

“ I do believe in it,” cried Philip, earnestly. “ I believe 
it to be the purest on earth ; but no human form of wor- 
ship can be wholly pure. I have never quitted, and never 
shall quit, the Church in which I was born ; but I will not 
bind myself to believe — or say I believe — all her dogmas ; 
and I dare not, in the sight of God, declare that I feel call- 
ed by His Spirit to be a minister at the altar when I do 
not sincerely think I am.” 

“ And may I ask what right you have to think any thing 
at all about the matter ? This is merely a form of ordina- 
tion, which men much wiser and more pious than yourself 
— excuse me, Philip — have appointed, and which every 
clergyman passes through without any scruple. The words 
mean only that the candidate is a good man, and will not 
disgrace the cloth he wears. Your uncle explained it all 
to me once. Philip,” continued Mrs. Breynton, losing the 
old scorn of her manner in the real earnestness of her feel- 
ings, “ you would not, surely, give up your prospects in life 
for such a trifle as this ?” 

“A trifle !” echoed Philip, sadly, as he saw how vain it 
would be to explain his motives further, and felt keenly 
the bitterness his determination would give to his aunt’s 
mind. She, fancying that in his silence she had gained an 
advantage, pursued it with all the skill of which she was 
capable. 

“My dear nephew, do you know what you are doing? 


THE OGILYIES. 


115 


Have you forgotten that your whole education has been 
bent toward this end ; that your own small fortune — per- 
haps a little more, to which I will not allude — has gone in 
college expenses for the same purpose ; that if you follow 
your present wild scheme, you must begin life anew, with 
nothing in this world to trust to ?” 

“ Except an honest heart and a clear conscience.” 

How tender and holy was the light in those sweet eyes 
that looked up in his — how warm the pressure of the other 
hand, not the clasped one, which of its own accord twined 
round his arm in fond encouragement ! He needed the 
strength thus imparted, for his own was sorely shaken by 
Mrs. Breynton’s next words — uttered in a tone where anger 
and disappointment triumphed over all assumed composure. 

“Listen to me, Philip Wychnor. You are about to act 
like a madman, and I feel it my duty to restrain you if I 
can. I do not ask you to remember how I have brought 
you up with this purpose in view, treating you less like my 
brother’s child than my own ; nor do I speak of my disap- 
pointment — for I know your great heroes for conscience’ 
sake think little of these things,” she added, with a sarcas- 
tic meaning that cut Philip to the heart. He sprang up to 
speak. 

“ Nay, sit down again ; I am not accustomed to scenes,” 
said the old lady, coldly. “ I knew a young man once — 
he was not unlike you, Philip” — and Mrs. Breynton regard- 
ed her nephew with a smile half bitter, half mournful — “he, 
too, for a whim — a boyish whim — gave up the Church, and 
his father turned him out into the wide world — to starve. 
His mother broke her heart ; and the girl he was about to 
marry — still, like you — she grieved until her friends per- 
suaded her to wed another lover; but they could not give 
back her withered youth — her poor broken heart. Will 
you hearken, Philip, now ? for the man was your father, and 
that gentle creature whom he basely forsook was the dear- 
est friend I ever had — ay, and the mother of your Eleanor !” 

Struck with surprise, and deeply moved, the two young 
lovers impulsively started from each other’s side — but only 


116 


THE OGILVIES. 


for a moment. Closer they drew together, in that painful 
time of agitation unrestrained by outward form; and Philip 
murmured, as he wound his arm round her, 

“ Mine — mine still — for all the past. She will trust me : 
my Eleanor — my own !” 

Mrs. Breynton went on. “Now, Philip Wychnor, you 
may follow your father’s steps if you like ; but I solemnly 
declare that if you persist in this, and disgrace the family 
as he did, I will give up my purpose of making you my 
heir ; and, that you may not bring poverty on that dear 
child whom I have loved all her life for her mother’s sake, 
with my consent you shall never marry Eleanor Ogilvie.” 

Too angry to trust herself with another word, Mrs. Breyn- 
ton swept out of the room. 

Philip had started up to detain her, but she was gone. 
He paced the room in violent agitation, never looking to- 
ward Eleanor ; then he threw himself beside a table in the 
farthest and darkest corner, and laid his head upon his fold- 
ed arms as if quite oblivious even of her presence. 

For this a proud woman would have treated her lover 
with silent indignation ; a selfish one would have let loose 
her wounded vanity in a burst of reproaches ; but Eleanor 
was neither selfish nor proud. A single pang shot through 
her heart as she sat alone and unnoticed by the fire; two 
or three tears fell ; and then the true woman’s nature tri- 
umphed. She had not bestowed her love for the poor re- 
quital of outward attentions such as wooers pay ; she had 
not meted it out, share for share, as if love were a thing to 
be weighed and measured. She had given it freely, knit- 
ting her soul an to his, until she felt and lived, suffered and 
rejoiced, not in herself or for herself, but in him and for 
him. 

Eleanor rose and glided noislessly across the room until 
she stood beside her lover. In truth, he hardly felt that 
she was near him. A few faint beatings were there in the 
young maiden heart at the new and solemn office that be- 
came hers ; one passing flush, and then all earthly feelings 
Were stilled by the mute prayer which spoke in the lifted 


xio iiVA Ojixao^tuu AiV iiJuixW 









THE OGILVIES. 


m 


eyes. She stooped down, laid her arms round Philip’s 
neck, and kissed him on the forehead. 

He started — almost shivered beneath the touch of her 
lips. 

“ Oh, my God ! how shall I bear this ? Don’t speak to 
me, Eleanor ; don’t touch me, or I shall have no strength 
at all. Go away !” 

But the next moment the harsh accents melted into tears 
* — such a burning flood as rarely bursts even from man’s 
pent-up suffering. Eleanor, terrified, almost heartbroken, 
was yet the stronger now. A woman who loves always is. 
She knelt beside him : it was on her bosom that his tears 
fell, and he did not turn away. How could he ? A child 
does not cling to its mother with more utter helplessness 
than did Philip to his betrothed in that hour of suffering. 

And she — as she bent over him, her heart lifted itself up 
in silent breathings of the prayer that she might grow 
strong, to strengthen him , and trustful, to comfort him. 

“ O God !” was that inward prayer, “ if it must be, take 
all the sunshine out of my life and give it to his! Oh! 
would that I could die for thee, my heart’s dearest — my 
pride — my husband /” 

And as she breathed over him the name, as yet unclaim- 
ed, it seemed an omen that this cloud would pass away, 
and the time surely come when her lips should have a right 
to echo the heart’s voice. 

“You see how weak I am, Eleanor,” Philip said, with a 
mournful attempt at a smile — “ I, who yesterday told you 
how I would brave the world ; and now I cling helplessly 
to you. But it must not be — she was right — I should onh 
bring trouble on you. I must stand alone. Eleanor, take 
your arm away; it weighs me down like lead. Oh! would 
that we were only friends — that yesterday had never been !” 

He spoke in the bitterness of his soul, without thinking of 
her. Eleanor cast one glance upon him, and knew this. 
Blessings on that unselfish nature which, knowing, at once 
forgave. 

“ Eleanor,” he said, after a pause, speaking quickly and 


118 


THE OGILVIES. 


abruptly, “have you thought what will be the end of this? 
Do you know that I can not marry you — at least not for 
many, many years ; that I have nothing to live upon, be- 
cause I was too proud to be entirely dependent on Aunt 
Breynton, and, as she truly says, I spent my little all at 
college, intending to enter the Church ? Even after my 
mind was changed, I went dreaming on, never thinking of 
the future — fool that I was ! And yet most people would 
say I am a greater fool now,” he added, with a bitter smile 
— “ ay, and something of a villain to boot. Eleanor, after 
all, I think I will take the curacy. I shall not be a greater 
hypocrite than many of those in gown and band ; and I 
shall keep my vow to you, if I break it to Heaven.” 

“Never! Do you think I would let you sell your con- 
science for me ? Do you think I would ever be your wife 
then ? No — for I should not love — I should despise you ! 
Nay, I did not mean that, Philip” — and her voice softened 
almost into weeping — “only it would break my heart if 
you did this wickedness. You must not — shall not — nay, 
you will not. My own Philip, tell me that you will not.” 

And, kneeling before him, Eleanor made her lover sol- 
emnly utter the promise which would for years doom them 
both to the heart-sickness of hope deferred. Then she sat 
down beside him and took his hand. 

“Now let us consider what is best to be done. Do not 
think of yesterday at all, if it pains you. Forget that we 
were betrothed — talk to me as to a friend only — a dear 
friend — who regards your honor and happiness above every 
thing in this world. Shall it be so, Philip ?” 

“ God bless my Eleanor — my strength — my comfort !” 
was his answer. The words were more precious to her 
than the wildest outbursts of lover-like adoration could 
ever have been. 

They talked together long and seriously — like old friends. 
And this was no pretense, for none are true lovers who have 
not also for one another the still thoughtful affection of 
friends. Her calmness gave him strength — her clear, pen- 
etrating mind aided his ; and, the first shock over, Philip 


THE OGILVIES. 


119 


seemed to pass at once from the dreaminess of aimless boy- 
hood to the self-reliance and courage of a man. And still 
beside him, in all his plans, hopes, and fears, was the faith- 
ful woman-heart, as brave, as self-denying, never looking 
back, but going forward with him into the dim future, and 
half dispersing its mists with the light of love. 

“And you will forgive me, my dearest,” said Philip, when 
they had decided how and where he was to begin the hard 
battle with the world — “ you will forgive me for bringing 
this trouble upon you ; and, in spite of these erring words 
of mine, you will — ” 

He hesitated, but Eleanor went on for him. 

“ I will wait — for years if it must be — until Philip makes 
for me a home — happier and dearer for the long waiting. 
And who knows how rich it may be, too ? — a great deal 
richer than that tiny cottage at Wearmouth.” She tried 
to speak gayly, though the smile which her lips assumed 
could not reach her eyes, and soon melted into seriousness 
as she continued: “Besides, dear Philip, there is one thought 
which lies deep — almost painfully — in my heart, though 
your generous lips have never breathed it. I can not for- 
get that half your cares would have been lightened had the 
girl whom you chose possessed ever so little fortune, instead 
of being left dependent on a brother’s kindness. How I 
have wished to be rich for your sake.” 

“ Foolish girl ! why, you are my riches, my comfort, my 
joy !” cried Philip, drawing closely into his very heart his 
affianced wife. She clung there closer in sorrow than she 
had ever done in joy. “ If this day’s trial had never been, 
and we could be again as we were last night — would you 
wish it, Eleanor ?” 

“No !” she answered. “No ! for even then I knew not 
fully, as I do now, how true, how worthy, how noble was 
my Philip.” 

At this precise moment Mrs. Breynton’s voice was heard 
without. With her entered an old subdean who lived in 
the Close, and wdio had come in nearly every evening for 
some six years, during which he and Mrs. Breynton had 


120 


THE OGILVIES. 


played an infinity of games at backgammon. Mr. Sedley 
did not know what a relief his presence was this evening 
— by casting the veil of outward formality over the con- 
flicting emotions of the trio at the palace. So the worthy 
old clergyman talked with Philip about Oxford — paid his 
labored, old-fashioned, but, withal, affectionate compliments 
to his particular favorite, Miss Ogilvie — and then engaged 
Mrs. Breynton in their beloved game. During its progress 
Eleanor gladly retired for the night. 

At the foot of the staircase she met Philip, who had fol- 
lowed unperceived. He looked very pale, and his voice 
trembled, though he tried to speak as usual. 

“Eleanor, say good-night to me; not formally, as just 
now, but as we did that happy yesterday.” 

She took both his hands, and looked up lovingly in his 
face. 

“ Good-night, then, dear Philip !” 

He folded her in his arms and kissed her many times. 
She spoke to him hopeful words; and they were uttered 
in sincerity, for her own spirit was so full of love and faith, 
both in God and man, that she had little doubt of the future. 

“ To-morrow, Philip — all will seem brighter to us to-mor- 
row,” was her adieu. 

He watched her glide up the staircase, turning once round 
to cast on him that quiet, love-beaming smile peculiar to 
herself. Then he leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh. 

“The bitterness is past!” murmured Philip. “Now I 
can go forth alone.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Look not mournfully into the past — it returns no more. Wisely im- 
prove the present ; and go forth into the shadowy future without fear and 
with a manly heart. — Longfellow. 

Eleanor arose next morning composed — almost cheer- 
ful. True, there had been, on her first waking, a feeling of 
oppression as though some vague sorrow had chanced, un« 


THE OGILYIES. 


121 


der the shadow of which she still lay ; and a few tears had 
stolen through the yet closed eyes, chasing away sleep, and 
making the faint daylight a welcome visitant. But when 
she had arisen and looked out on the bright spring morning, 
all this waking pain changed into a quiet hopefulness. One 
creeps so soon out of the gloom into the light — at least, 
when one is young ! The early swallows were flying mer- 
rily in and out of the eaves ; the morning sun glistened 
cheerfully on the three spires of the cathedral, though its 
walls still lay in heavy shadow. But the girl’s eyes looked 
upward only, and therefore it was the sunshine she saw, 
not the shade. 

She thought of Philip’s dear, precious love — now all her 
own — and of his noble nature, both of which had been tried, 
and come out with a brightness that made her forget the 
refining fire. Her soul was so unworldly, so filled with 
trusting affection, that she had no fear. She was ready to 
let her lover go forth into the world, believing entirely in 
him, and confiding so much in the world itself, that she felt 
sure its storms would subside and its evils be removed be- 
fore him. Simple girl ! And yet perhaps there was more 
in her theory than many imagine. It is the faithful, the 
holy-hearted ones, who walk calmly and safely on the troub- 
led waters of the world. 

Eleanor was still musing, more thoughtfully than sadly, 
and considering whether or not she should descend to tell 
Philip the fruit of her hopeful meditations, when Davis 
brought a letter. 

“ Mr. Wychnor told me to give you this, ma’am, as soon 
as I heard you stirring.” 

Eleanor changed color, and her fingers trembled over the 
seal. 

“ I hope, Miss Ogilvie, that nothing is amiss with Master 
Philip. He looked so ill this morning — and I could not 
persuade him to have any breakfast before he went away.” 

“ Went away !” 

“ Yes, indeed, miss ; he set off before it was quite light, 
by the early London coach.” 


122 


THE OGILVIES. 


Eleanor’s fingers tightened over the unopened letter, and 
her very lips grew white ; yet she had self-control enough 
to speak calmly. 

“ Indeed, Davis, you need not be uneasy. Mr. Wychnor 
has probably taken his journey a day or two sooner than 
he intended — that is all.” 

“ I’d stake my life it’s not all,” muttered the good wom- 
an, as she courtesied herself out. “ I only hope there is 
nothing wrong between him and Miss Eleanor — bless their 
dear hearts ! They was born for one another sure-ly /” 

Eleanor threw herself on the bed with a passionate burst 
of weeping that for many minutes would not be restrained. 

“ Oh Philip, Philip, why did you go ?” she said ; and it 
was long before her grief found any solace, save in the ut- 
terance of this despairing cry. She was but a girl — with 
all the weakness of a deep first love — but she had also its 
strength. So, after a time, her sobs grew calmer; and while 
with still dimmed eyes she read Philip’s letter, its peaceful 
influence passed into her spirit. Even then it was so bless- 
ed to read this first letter, and to see there written down 
the love which she had before heard his lips declare. The 
words “ My own Eleanor,” smiling at her from the top of 
the page, almost took away the pain of that sad hour. And 
as she read on, tracing in every earnest line the brave, true 
heart of him who wrote, she became comforted more and 
more. 

“Eleanor!” ran this dear record — (Reader, do not be 
alarmed lest we should transcribe an ordinary love-letter, 
for, though full of affection, Philip had in him something 
of reserve, and far too much of good sense ever to indulge 
in the fantastic rhapsodies which have passed into a prov- 
erb) — “ Eleanor, you must not think this departure of mine 
hasty or ill-advised ; unkind you will not ; for you love me, 
and know that I love you better than any thing on earth, 
therefore there can be no thought of unkindness between 
us. I have gone away because, knowing my aunt as well 
as I do, I see no prospect, had I remained, of aught but add- 
ed bitterness and pain for us all. And though I can not— 


THE OGILVIES. 


123 


dare not — suffer myself unworthily to enter upon that 
course which she has laid out for me, God forbid that I 
should in word or deed return evil for many kindnesses 
which she has shown me all my life through. Oh, Eleanor! 
when I sit here in the quiet night-time, and think of those 
boyish days, I almost doubt whether I am really right in 
thwarting her desire so much. But yet I could not — you, 
with your pure right-mindedness, you yourself said I ought 
not to do this thing. And have I not also given up you f 
Surely it must be a holy and a worthy sacrifice ! 

“ Dearest ! if in this I have done my aunt wrong — and I 
feel my heart melt toward her, in spite of all the harsh 
words, ay, and the bitter taunts which she gave me this 
night when you were not by — if I have done her wrong, 
you will atone it. She reproached me with casting you off 
— you, my heart’s treasure ! She said that her hearth and 
home should at least be open to you. Let it be so ! Stay 
with her, Eleanor ; give her the dutiful care that I ought 
to have shown : it will comfort me to know this. You see 
how I trust you, as if you w r ere a part of myself, feeling 
that her harsh condemnations of me will never alter your 
love. And if her mind should change — if she should learn 
to see with our eyes many things whereon she differs from 
us now, and should find out w T hy it w T as I acted thus, how 
will the influence of my own gentle girl prove a blessing 
to us all ! In this I think not of worldly fortune. I will 
fight my own way, and be indebted to no one on earth, 
save for the help of affection. 

“ And now, beloved, I set out for the path on which we 
decided. Thank heaven that I can write we! — that I car- 
ry with me your precious love — that w T e are one in heart 
and mind — and look forward to one future, which I wfill 
work out. Send me away with a blessing ! Yet you have 
done so already. Eleanor, that one smile of yours — you 
did not know it was the last, but I did — will rest in my 
heart, and be its strength until I see you again. Forgive 
me that I could not trust myself to say ‘ Good-by.’ Yet 
it is hardly a farewell between those whose hearts and 
9 


124 


THE OGILVIES. 


thoughts are ever united ! God grant it may be even so 
until our lives’ end — and after /” 

More did Philip write concerning his worldly plans and 
the arrangement of their future correspondence. All that 
he said was calm, breathing perhaps more of steadfast pa- 
tience than of hope, but still without a shade of fear either 
for himself or for her. When Eleanor laid down the letter 
of her lover there was not a tear in her eye — not a sigh on 
her lip. 

“ God be with thee, my beloved !” she said, fervently ; 
put the letter in her bosom, and went down stairs. 

In the hall she met the old waiting-woman, Davis, coming 
out of the breakfast-room, with tears in her eyes. 

“ Oh, Miss Ogilvie !” cried the poor soul, “ I can’t tell 
what has come over my mistress. Sixteen years have I 
been in this house, and never saw her look so before. She 
did not speak a word all the while I was dressing her, until 
Master Philip’s little dog whined at the door, and then she 
grew very angry, and ordered me to go and tell James to 
shoot it or hang it, for she did not want to be troubled 
with it any more. I could hardly believe my ears, Miss 
Eleanor — I couldn’t, indeed — so good as she used to be to 
poor little Flo. And when I only stood staring instead of 
going off, she stamped her foot and ordered me out of the 
room. To think that my lady should have served me so !” 

“ She did not mean it, good Davis ; she is very fond of 
you,” said Eleanor, soothingly. There was room enough 
in her heart for every one’s sorrows, great and small. 

“ I hope so, miss ; indeed, I should not care so much, ex- 
cept that I fear something has gone wrong between her 
and Master Philip. I happened to let fall a word about 
his being gone, but she seemed to know it herself before- 
hand. She turned round so sharply, and desired me never 
to mention his name, but to go and lock up his room just 
as it was, for he would not want it again. Ay, dear ! how 
sorry I shall be not to see the young master here any 
more !” 

Eleanor felt her own eyes growing dim, and a choking 


THE OGILYIES. 


125 


in her throat prevented any reply. The good woman went 
on in her voluble grief. 

“ Well, well ! servants have no business with their mas- 
ters’ or mistresses’ affairs ; but I do feel sorry about poor 
Master Philip. And there is another thing that troubles 
me ; he left me this letter for my mistress, and for the life 
of me I daren’t give it to her myself. If it were not mak- 
ing too free, Miss Ogilvie, I wish you would.” 

Eleanor stretched out her hand for the letter. “ Where 
is Mrs. Breynton ?” she asked. 

“ At the breakfast-table, miss — sitting bolt upright, like 
— I don’t know what. Bless us all — but she’s off already. 
Poor young lady ! something is the matter with her too, 
for I saw the tears in her pretty eyes. Well, I don’t think 
she’s quarreled with Master Philip, or she would not have 
looked at his letter so tenderly — -just as I used to do at 
poor Samuel’s. Ah ! lack-a-day ! it’s a troublesome world !” 

And the starched old maid went away up stairs, rubbing 
with a corner of her apron each of her dull gray eyes. 
They might have been young and bright once — who 
knows? 

Mrs. Breynton sat, a very statue of rigidity, in her usual 
place at the head of the table, her face as smooth and un- 
wrinkled as her dress. She said “ Good-morning, Eleanor, 
my dear,” in the usual tone — neither warmer nor colder 
than the salutation had been for years ; and the hand with 
which she poured out the coffee was as steady as ever. 
Eleanor almost began to think that the painful events of 
the night and morning were only a dream, so perfectly as- 
tounded was she by the manner of the old lady. 

She had come with a swelling heart to throw herself at 
the knees of Philip’s aunt, and beg her to forgive him, or, 
at least, to receive from herself all the loving care that was 
in the heart of the nephew whom she had discarded. But 
at the sight of that frigid, composed face— so indifferent, so 
unmarked by any sign of suffering, regret, or even anger — 
Eleanor felt all her own warm impulses completely frozen. 
She could as easily have poured out her feelings before the 


12G 


THE OGILVIES. 


grim old figures sitting in their niches on the old cathedral 
wall. Philip’s letter was still in her hand — almost uncon- 
sciously she thrust it out of sight ; and the voice which re- 
plied to the morning salutation, though tremulous, was al- 
most as cold as Mrs. Breynton’s own. Eleanor took her 
place at the breakfast-table just as though she had never 
passed through these sudden phases of love, joy, sorrow — 
events which would govern a lifetime. 

Mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar objects 
about the room — the boy’s portrait that hung on the wall 
— the orange-trees and the flowers in the conservatory, now 
brightened by a week’s more sunshine. It was one week 
only since the morning when Philip and Philip’s fortunes 
had been talked of, sending such a pleasant thrill to her 
heart : how much one little week, nay, one day, had brought 
forth ! 

Mrs. Breynton began, apparently without an effort, her 
usual morning conversation. This never rambled far be- 
yond what might literally be considered table-talk : the 
dryness of toast, and the over or under boiling of eggs, 
seemed always subjects sufficiently engrossing at that ear- 
ly hour of the day. Thus she succeeded in passing away 
the half-hour which to Eleanor seemed insupportable. The 
latter many times was on the point of giving way to her 
pent-up feelings, when a word or tone sent them all back 
again to the depth of her heart. How could she ever find 
courage to deliver Philip’s letter. 

The breakfast equipage was already removed, and still 
nothing had been uttered between them except those ordi- 
nary commonplaces which froze Eleanor’s very heart. 

“If you please, ma’am,” said the retreating James, “the 
gardener told me to ask if you would have the auriculas 
planted out, as the weather is so warm now, and he has al- 
ways done this about Easter ?” 

There was the faintest possible trembling of Mrs. Breyn- 
ton’s mouth — and she dropped a few stitches in her knit- 
ting. Then, walking to the window to take them up, she 
answered, rather angrily, 


THE OGILVIES. 


127 


“Tell Morris I shall judge myself about the matter, and 
will speak to him to-morrow.” 

Eleanor watched all with intense anxiety. She marked 
how the reference to Easter had startled Mrs. Breynton 
from her indifference, showing how much of it was assumed. 
Tremulously she advanced to the window. 

“ Shall I make the knitting right for you ?” she asked. 

“ Thank you, my dear ; I really can not see so well as I 
used to do.” 

Eleanor gave back the work, and with it Philip’s letter. 

“ What is this ?” said Mrs. Breynton, sharply. 

“ Oh, dear friend, read it — pray read it, and then you will 
forgive him — forgive me. Indeed, you do not know how 
unhappy we are !” 

Mrs. Breynton walked across the room to the fire. It 
had gone out in the sunshine. She laid the letter on the 
table, and rang the bell. Eleanor rose up as the man en- 
tered. 

“James,” said his mistress, “ bring me a lighted taper.” 

When it came, she deliberately unsealed the letter, tore 
it into long strips, and burned each of them separately. 
Eleanor stood, and dared not utter a word. There was 
such iron sternness — such implacable, calm determination 
— in that rigid face, that she was terrified into silence. She 
saw the words which Philip’s dear hand had traced con- 
sumed to ashes, and offered no opposition. Then Mrs. 
Breynton advanced, and touched the girl’s forehead with 
her cold, aged lips. 

“ Eleanor Ogilvie, you shall be my daughter if you will 
In you I have nothing to forgive — much to pity. I take 
you as my child — my only one. But as respects this” — 
she pointed to the little heap of burnt paper — “ or its writ- 
er, the subject must never more be revived between us.” 

She walked out of the room with her own firm, stately 
steps, her silks rustling on the staircase as she ascended 
slowly — but not more slowly than usual — to her chamber, 
and then Eleanor heard the door shut. Upon what strug- 
gles it closed — or if there were any conflict at all — no one 


128 


THE 0GILV1ES. 


knew. That day, and for a day or two after, there was a 
grayer shade on the cheek already pallid with age, and 
once or twice, in reading the evening prayers, the cold, 
steady voice changed for a moment. But in a week the 
Dean’s widow was the same as she had ever been, and all 
went on at the palace as though Philip’s name had never 
been heard. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Authorship is, according to the spirit in which it is pursued, an infamy, 
a pastime, a day-labor, a handicraft, an art, a science, a virtue. — S chlegel. 

Take away the self-conceited, and there will be elbow-room in the world. 
— Whichcote. 

Me. Pierce Pennythorne was what the world respect- 
fully terms a “ very clever man.” The world understands 
“cleverness” thoroughly, and venerates it accordingly, 
though it often scoffs at genius. Perhaps on the same 
principle the Cockney who gazes in admiration on the 
stone-built fabric of St. Paul’s turns away contemptuously 
from some grand lonely mountain of nature’s making, and 
thinks it is not so very fine after all. He can not measure 
its inches; he does not understand it. He had rather by 
half look up from his city dwelling at the gilt cross and 
ball. 

Now Mr. Pennythorne was exactly the man to attract 
and keep this sort of admiration. In whatever sphere he 
moved — and he had moved in many and various ones dur- 
ing his sixty years of life — he was always sure to get the 
pre-eminence. His acute, decisive character impressed or- 
dinary people with reverence, and his tact and quickness 
of judgment had enabled him to compel from the small 
modicum of talent which he possessed the reputation of 
being a literary star of considerable magnitude. 

For, after passing through various phases of life, Mr. Pen- 
nythorne had finally subsided into literature. He took to 
writing as another man would take to bricklaying — con- 
sidering that 


THE OGILVIES. 


129 


The worth of any thing 
Is just as much as it will bring. 

And as literature brought him in some hundreds a year, and 
maintained respectably the house in Blank Square, Ken- 
sington, together with Mrs. Pennythorne and two young 
Penny thornes, he regarded it as a useful instrument of la- - 
bor, and valued it accordingly. His was a most convenient 
pen, too — a pen of all-work. It would write for any body, 
on any subject, in any style — always excepting that of im- 
aginative literature, in which road it had never been known 
to travel. But this, as its owner doubtless believed, was 
only because it did not choose, as such writing was all 
trash, and never paid. 

Such was Mr. Pennythorne abroad ; at home he carried 
out the same character, slightly varied. He was, so to 
speak, the most excellent of tyrants ; his sway was abso- 
lute, but he used it well. No one could say that he was 
not as good a husband and father as ever lived — that is, as 
far as outward treatment went. Throughout some thirty 
years of matrimony, he and his quiet, good-natured, meek- 
spirited wife had never had a quarrel ; and he had brought 
up his children to be creditable members of society. His 
system was that of blind obedience. Nevertheless, both 
wife and children were affectionately inclined toward him 
— for some people are happiest in being thus ruled ; it takes 
away so much moral responsibility. Sympathy in feeling 
or in intellect was unknown in the Pennythorne family ; 
they did not believe there was such a thing, and so they 
lived a comfortable humdrum life, conscious of no higher 
existence. Doubtless they were quite happy — and so are 
oysters! Still, the most world -tossed, world -riven spirit 
that ever passed through its fire-ordeal of love, genius, and 
suffering, would hardly wish to change with these human 
molluscs. 

Mr. Pennythorne, after dinner, in his little study, with the 
blazing fire shining on its well-peopled book-shelves and 
convenient old-fashioned desk, was the very picture of a 
man of letters comfortably off in the world. He had en- 


130 


THE OGILVIES. 


sconced in the only arm-chair which the room possessed 
his small wiry frame — for Mr. Pennythorne shared with 
Alexander, Napoleon, and other great minds the glory of a 
diminutive person. As he sat reading the newspaper, with 
his back to the lamp, the light cast into strong relief his 
sharp, well-marked features. It was not an intellectual 
head, still less a benevolent one ;• but there were wonder- 
ful cleverness and shrewdness in its every line. The firm, 
closed mouth could sometimes relax into a very good-na- 
tured smile; and a great deal of dry satirical humor lay 
perdu among the wrinkles — politely termed crow’s feet — 
that surrounded the small, bright gray eyes. 

The postman’s sharp knock made the little man start ; 
for, with all his mental self-possession, he had much phys- 
ical nervousness. At the same time, his quick movement 
revealed the presence of Mrs. Pennythorne, who sat in the 
shadow, with a half-knitted stocking on her lap. Her hus- 
band always liked her to be near him after his daily occu- 
pation was over. Not that he wanted conversation; for 
to that Mr. Pennythorne thought no woman equal, and per- 
haps the secret of his regard for his wife was her abstinence 
from all intellectual rivalship. Good Mrs. Pennythorne, in- 
deed, had never been burdened with that ambition. But 
the sight of her quiet, gentle, and still pretty face was com- 
posing to him ; and she let him talk as much or as little as 
he liked — said “ Yes,” or “ No,” or “ Certainly, my dear” — 
and when he had done, went to sleep. They were exactly 
suited for each other, Mr. and Mrs. Pennythorne. 

She received the letter at the door — it annoyed him to 
see any one but herself in his study — and while he read it 
she took the opportunity of being thoroughly awakened, 
to go through the serious operation which stocking-knit- 
ters denominate “ turning down the heel.” Once or twice 
she lifted up her eyes at a few exclamations from her hus- 
band — “ Bless me !” “ How very odd !” etc. But she had 
been too well trained to inquire of him about any thing 
which he did not in due form communicate. So she waited 
until he delivered himself thus : 


THE OGILVIES. 


131 


“ Cillie, my dear” — Mrs. Pennythorne’s Christian name 
was Cecilia, which, by a humorous ingenuity, he had con- 
verted into this odd diminutive — a somewhat doubtful 
compliment — “ Cillie, my dear, this is a very curious cir- 
cumstance.” 

“ Is it, indeed,” said Mrs. Pennythorne, not interrogative- 
ly, but assentingly. Her husband always expected to be 
understood at once, without any explanation, so she never 
dreamed of inquiring to what circumstance he alluded. 

“You remember my old college friend, Edwin Wychnor 
— Captain Wychnor he was then — who dined with us at 
Sittingbourne — ten — let me see — fifteen years ago ?” 

“ Oh yes !” Mrs. Pennythorne made a point of remem- 
bering every thing, as nothing vexed her spouse so much 
as the confession of ignorance on any point to which his 
own retentive memory chose to turn. 

“ There was another Oxford man with us that day, you 
know — Bourne — Dr. Bourne now — who dropped into the 
living that Wychnor gave up — like a foolish fellow as he 
was! Well, this letter comes from him; not from Wych- 
nor, or it would be a dead letter.” (Pennythorne’s conver- 
sation was usually studded with execrable jokes, made 
comical by the solemnity with which they were put for- 
ward.) “ It is from Bourne, introducing to me the defunct 
captain’s only son, who has gone and played the same mad- 
cap trick as his father. He wants me to get the lad that 
very easy thing nowadays , 4 employment in London.’ ” 

“ Well, my dear, surely nobody can do that so well as 
you,” meekly observed his wife. 

“Pooh! you are only a woman; you don’t know any 
thing at all about it. Pretty fellows to deal with are these 
college youths, with heads more full of pride than of brains 
— can’t do this because they haven’t been brought up to it, 
and won’t do the other because it isn’t gentlemanly. I 
suppose this young Peter, or Paul, or Jeremiah— he has got 
that sort of a name — will turn out just such another upon 
my hands. But that is always the way ; every body brings 
stray sheep to me — very black sheep they are too, some* 
times.” 


132 


THE OGILVIES. 


Mrs. Pennythorne laughed, thinking from her husband’s 
look that he had said something funny ; she always did so, 
like a dutiful wife, whether she understood it or not. “And 
I am sure, Pierce, you have helped a great many young 
men on in the world. There was young Phillips, and 
O’Mahony the Irishman, and Edward Jones.” 

“ And a nice, ungrateful set they all turned out !” said 
Mr. Pennythorne, though a self-complacent smile rather 
contradicted his words. There was nothing in the world 
that he liked so well as patronizing. Not that he confined 
himself to the show of benevolence, for he was a good-na* 
tured man, and had done many kindly acts in his time ; but 
they had all been done with due importance. His proteges 
— and he always had a long train of them — were required 
implicitly to trust to him, to follow his bidding, and to re- 
ceive his advice. He never asked for gratitude, but yet he 
always contrived to rail at the world because he did not 
receive it. Still, with all his peculiarities, Mr. Pennythorne 
did a great deal of good in his way — and rather liked the 
doing of it too, though he said he didn’t. 

“Cillie,” he observed, just as the summons came to tea, 
“I suppose this young Wychnor must dine here next Sun- 
day. Take care that Fred is not out of the way, and that 
that foolish fellow Leigh is not keeping his bed, as he is so 
often. What’s the good of sons if you don’t make use of 
them? And an old fellow like me can’t be bothered to 
entertain a young Oxford scamp for a whole afternoon.” 

The same sharp postman’s knock — oh, what a volume of 
life-experiences might that sound suggest, could we follow 
it from door to door! — brought to Philip Wychnor, in his 
dull second-floor lodging, the following letter : 

“My dear young Friend, — I had a great regard for 
your late father, and shall have the same for you if you de- 
serve it, of which I have little doubt. I will also do my 
best to help you on in the world. To begin our acquaint- 
ance, perhaps you will dine at my house next Sunday — at 
six. Faithfully yours, Pierce Pennythorne.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


133 


It was an odd, abrupt letter, but Philip had already heard 
that the writer was not without his eccentricities. He was 
growing so desolate and cheerless in his London home that 
the least ray of kindness came upon him like a flood of light. 
He drank his cup of weak cold tea with almost the zest of 
those remembered days when Eleanor’s dear sunny face had 
shone from behind the urn in the happy palace drawing- 
room. Then he went out, and walked up and down the 
gloomy squares in the neighborhood of which his lodgings 
lay. And surely the dreariest place in all London is the 
region between Brunswick Square and Tottenham Court- 
road ! There solemn wealth sets up its abode, and strug- 
gling respectability tries to creep under its shadow in 
many a dull, melancholy street, while squalid poverty grov- 
els in between, with its miserable courts and alleys, that 
make the sick .and weary heart to doubt even the existence 
of good. 

Philip sauntered along ; but, viewed in the light of this 
new hope of his, the squares did not seem so desolate as 
they had done the evening before. Through the misty 
night the lamps glimmered faintly ; after a while the moon 
rose — and the moon looks pleasant to young eyes, especial- 
ly the eyes of lovers, even in the desert of Russell Square. 
Moreover, as Philip walked along the inner side, there was 
a freshness almost like perfume in the budding trees, over 
which an April shower had just passed. It came upon his 
senses like the breathing of hope. He stopped under the 
nearest lamp, took out Mr. Pennythorne’s letter, and read 
it over again. 

“ Well, it does seem kind, and may be the beginning of 
good. Who knows but I have put my first step on For- 
tune’s ladder to-night ?” 

Ah ! Philip, that ladder is of all others the hardest to 
climb. But you have a steady foot and a strong heart — 
all the stronger for having that precious love-amulet in its 
inmost folds. In spite of all the gray-headed reasoners, 
there never was a young man yet who did not work his 
way in the world the better for having some one to work 
for besides himself. 


134 


THE OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Wives seem created to be butts. Many a man now, like Pan, plays 
upon that which was formerly the object of his fond pursuit. — Edward 
West. 

Man alone, 

The recreant spirit of the universe, 

Contemns the operations of the light ; 

Loves surface-knowledge — calls the crimes of crowds 

Virtue — adores the useful vices. * * * 

Therefore 

I will commit my brain to none of them. — P hilip Bailey. 

“ Very glad to see you — exceedingly glad to see you, my 
young friend,” was the greeting that marked Philip’s first 
entrance into the drawing-room at Blank Square — we pre- 
fer that rather doubtful way of designating the Penny- 
thorn e abode. “Punctuality is a virtue, especially on a 
wet Sunday; I like to see young people keep time well, 
and then, as they grow older, time always keeps them— 
eh, sir ?” 

Philip smiled ; he was really amused at the oddities of 
the little man. He could do no more than smile silently, 
for it was impossible to get in a word. 

“ Cecilia, my dear,” and Mr. Pennythorne, with a sort of 
hop, skip, and jump movement — his usual method of prog- 
ress in the house — arrived at the sofa where his lady sat in 
all the unruffled serenities of a Sunday silk, a Sunday cap, 
and a Sunday face. She had a ponderous-looking volume 
beside her, of Sermons, or Fox’s Martyrs ; for, though the 
Pennythornes so far conformed to the world as to have 
company on a Sunday, they were “ a religious family 
and if the cook was beguiled out of her sole day of rest by 
having to prepare a first-rate dinner, it was atoned for by 
the mistress’s always reading good books up in the draw- 
ing-room. 

“Mr. Philip Wychnor, let me introduce you to Mrs. Pen* 


THE OGILVIES. 


135 


nythorne — my wife, sir; an ugly old woman, isn’t she? but 
then she’s so clever — there is not a cleverer woman in all 
London than Mrs. Penny thorne.” 

Philip looked at the pretty but most inane face of the 
lady, and then at her husband, who spoke with such gravi- 
ty that it was almost impossible to distinguish jest from 
earnest. Fairly puzzled between them, the young man ut- 
tered some ordinary politeness, and accepted the offered 
seat beside his hostess. 

“ There, you can begin your acquaintance w T ith that ex- 
cellent woman,” said Mr. Pennythorne ; “ but take care of 
her; you don’t know how sharp her tongue is — real ar- 
rows, sir — regular darts of wit : mind they don’t hit you !” 

Philip thought it rather unseemly that a man should 
make game of his wife in public, and began to feel some- 
what uncomfortable. But Mrs. Pennythorne herself seem- 
ed quite unmoved, smiling on in placid contentment. She 
had got used to this sort of banter, or else, which was 
most likely, she did not feel it at all. Some people are 
very feather-beds of stolidity, impenetrable to the sharpest 
tongue-weapons that sarcasm ever forged. Philip soon 
grew quite reassured on the subject. He tried to engage 
Mrs. Pennythorne in conversation, but did not succeed in 
getting beyond the wetness of the day and the unpleasant- 
ness of the Kensington omnibuses. She was as shy and 
nervous as a girl of sixteen, constantly looking to her hus- 
band, as if she had hardly a thought of her own. Still, 
there was a degree of quiet womanliness about her. She 
had a low voice, and her brown eyes were of the same col- 
or as Eleanor’s. Philip felt rather a liking to Mrs. Penny- 
thorne. 

“ Where can the boys be ?” said the old gentleman, 
becoming fidgety, and rushing to the foot of the stairs. 
“Fred! Leigh!” 

The next minute the “ boys” appeared. Mr. Frederick 
Pennythorne was about twenty-five; a specimen of that 
stereotyped class of young men with which London birth 
and London breeding indulge the world. Slight, dapper, 


130 


THE OGILVIES. 


active ; not ill-looking, and carefully dressed ; always ready 
for polkas, small-talk, and cigars; too respectable for a 
gent (odious word !), too ordinary and vulgar-minded for a 
gentleman, and far — oh ! far too mean in heart and soul for 
the noble title of a man ! 

This individual scanned Philip all over, and nodded his 
head with a careless “How-d’ye-do.” Then catching his 
father’s eye, Mr. Frederick composed his features into an 
aspect of grave deference. 

“ My son, this — my eldest son. Excellent fellow to show 
you all the wickedness of London, Mr. Wychnor. I don’t 
suppose there’s a greater scamp any where than Fred Pen- 
ny thorne.” 

The old gentleman did not know how nearly he hit the 
truth — but somehow or other the person alluded to winced 
slightly under the unintentional application. 

“ Really, father ! — But you’ll find out his ways soon, Mr. 
Wychnor,” said Fred, apologetically. 

“ Where’s Leigh ?” continued that indefatigable parent, 
who seemed to have as much difficulty in hunting up his 
family as a mechanist has in winding up his automata and 
setting them fairly going. 

A tall, thin youth of about seventeen crept languidly 
from behind the folding doors. Philip looked rather ear- 
nestly at the sallow, long-drawn-out face, and meaningless, 
half-closed eyes. Perhaps in the look there was somewhat 
of interest and compassion, for the boy involuntarily put 
out his hand, and just touched Philip’s with his cold, moist 
fingers. The heavy eyes lifted themselves up for a mo- 
ment. They were brown, like his mother’s, but far deeper 
and softer ; and as they met Philip’s, one passing gleam of 
expression lighted them up. It drew the young man’s 
heart toward the sickly, awkward-looking Leigh. 

“I hope we shall be very good friends in time,” said 
Philip W ychnor, shaking the boy’s hand warmly. 

“ That is more than any one else ever was with our cross- 
grained Leigh ! Long, lazy Leigh, as I call him — the great- 
est dunce in the universe, except for a little Greek, Latin, 


THE OGILYIES. 


137 


and Hebrew which I contrive to knock into him,” interposed 
the father, who seemed to take delight in sketching, en pas- 
sant , these complimentary family portraits. 

Philip turned round uneasily to Leigh, but the youth sat 
in his old corner quite impassive. The dull melancholy of 
his face was as unimpressible as his mother’s vacant and 
perpetual smile. 

“ Well, they are the oddest family I ever knew,” thought 
Philip Wychnor. “ Perhaps your son is not strong enough 
for much study ?” he said aloud. 

“Quite a mistake, my good sir,” answered Mr. Penny- 
thorne, sharply. “All my family enjoy excellent health. 
I can’t bear to have sick people about me. That fellow 
there looks yellow because he lies in bed sadly too much ; 
and besides, it is his temperament, his natural complexion. 
Pray do not put such notions into the lad’s head, Mr. Wych- 
nor.” 

The guest felt that he had unconsciously trodden on dan- 
gerous ground ; and it was really a relief when the appari- 
tion of a very tall maid-servant at the door gave the signal 
for dinner. 

Mr. Pennythorne was the best person in the world for 
the head of a table — his own especially ; for he had an un- 
failing flow of talk and abundance of small witticisms. To 
use a simile on the originality of which we have some doubt 
• — but which, not knowing the right owner, we shall appro- 
priate — he kept the ball of conversation constantly in mo- 
tion. However, to attain this desirable end, he rarely let 
it go out of his own hands. Perhaps this was as well, for 
the rest of his family seemed incapable of a throw. So he 
very wisely never gave them the opportunity. 

Once or twice Fred Pennythorne hazarded a remark — 
or, as he would have expressed it, “ put out a feeler” — 
thereby to discover the habits, manners, and character of 
the “fellow from the country but he was soon extinguish- 
ed by a few paternal sneers. Mrs. Pennythorne also, ven- 
turing to reply in more than monosyllables to some obser- 
vation of Philip’s, was regarded with such mock-deferential 


138 


THE 0GILVIES. 


attention by her lord and master that she relapsed into 
alarmed and inviolable silence. As for Leigh, he never 
tried to speak at all. When, soon after the introduction of 
wine and walnuts, Mrs. Pennythorne disappeared, he quick- 
ly followed his mother, and was seen no more. 

Then Mr. Pennythorne edified Philip for the space of 
half an hour on many and various subjects, chiefly political. 
Fortunately, Wychnor was no great talker, and of a quiet, 
yielding temper, so that the dictatorial tone of his host did 
not annoy him in the least. Perhaps he only listened with 
his outward ears, while his thoughts, like riches — and Phil- 
ip’s thoughts were riches to him — made to themselves wings 
and flew far away. 

“ Fred ! you stupid fellow,” called out Mr. Pennythorne, 
at last. 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the individual addressed, waking 
from a doze by the fire. 

“Your conversation is so remarkably amusing and in- 
structive that it is quite too overpowering for such addle- 
pates as this gentleman and myself. We will therefore in- 
dulge ourselves in a tete-a-tett dull enough for our limited 
capabilities. You may go and tell your mother to make 
the tea : I dare say cook will lend you the toasting-fork, 
that you may make yourself useful in the kitchen, at least.” 

The young dandy muttered a grumbling remonstrance, 
but finished his wine and walked off. It was really curi- 
ous, the complete ascendency which this eccentric father 
of a family had gained and preserved over all its members. 

“ Excellent boy that,” said Mr. Pennythorne when the 
door closed ; and Philip noticed how entirely his sarcastic 
manner was changed; “Fred is a rising young man, sir; 
no profession like that of a lawyer for making a fortune — 
at least in these railway times. That lad will ride in his 
carriage yet.” 

“ Indeed, I hope so,” Philip observed, seeing that an ob- 
servation was expected. 

“ Certainly. The Pennythornes, sir, always make their 
way in the world. Now there’s Leigh — quiet boy — very 


THE OGILVIES. 


139 


quiet, but thinks the more for that. His knowledge of 
classics is wonderful. I shall make him a first-rate man 
for Oxford. By-the-by, you, who have just left Alma Ma- 
ter, might give him a help now and then when I am too 
busy myself.” 

“ I shall be most happy.” 

“ Of course — of course. Thank you, Mr. Wychnor. And 
now tell me in what way I can be of service to you.” 

The little man leaned over the table, and confronted 
Philip with his peering gray eyes. All his jesting manner 
was gone, and there was a straightforward, business-like 
earnestness, which his guest liked much better and felt in- 
finitely more disposed to trust. Philip briefly stated that, 
having suddenly relinquished the Church, he was without 
resources, and wished to earn a livelihood in any respecta- 
ble way for which his education might fit him. 

“Now, my young friend, what do you call a ‘respectable 
way ?’ ” said Mr. Penny thorne. 

Philip was rather confused, but answered, “Any honest 
way, of which a gentleman’s son need not feel ashamed. 
Surely the world is wide enough for one more to get his 
bread — if not by his hands, at least by his brains — of which 
I hope I have a share.” 

“No doubt — no doubt,” returned Mr. Penny thorne ; “ but 
let us see how you are to use them. Authorship is not a 
bad profession. Suppose you take to that ?” 

Philip looked somewhat astonished. “My dear sir, I 
never wrote any thing in my life. I have no genius !” 

“ Genius, my excellent young friend, between ourselves, 
has nothing to do with the matter. It is a commodity 
rather unpleasant than otherwise. A man’s genius gener- 
ally ends in making a fool of him — or a beggar, which 
comes to the same thing. The best authors, and those 
who have made most money, have had no genius at all. 
With plenty of diligence and a good connection, a clever 
author may get a very good living, while the poor devils 
called men of genius — a term for unusual flightiness and 
conceit — lie down and starve.” 

10 


140 


THE OGILVIES. 


Philip listened to this speech, first in surprise, then in 
pain. He had spoken truly — at least as he then believed 
— when he said he had no genius ; but genius itself he wor- 
shiped with all the enthusiasm of youth. So utterly con- 
founded was he by this argument of Mr. Pennythorne’s, 
that he did not reply by a single word ; and the old gen- 
tleman continued : 

“ You see, Mr. Philip Wychnor, that I have spoken plain- 
ly to you, as I would not to every one ; but I like your face, 
and, moreover, you are your father’s son. If you choose to 
try your hand at authorship, I will endeavor to procure 
you work. It shall be easy at first, and you can get on 
by degrees.” 

But Philip shook his head. “No, Mr. Penny thorne, I 
feel too certain of my own incapacity ; and literature has 
always seemed to me so high and holy a calling.” 

At this moment the young man met the upturned face 
of his host — the cold, cautious eyes watching him with a 
look something between wonder and curiosity, and the 
sarcastic mouth bent into the most contemptuous of polite 
sneers. Now it was one of Philip’s weaknesses that his 
sensitive and reserved disposition was ever painfully alive 
to ridicule. As before said, he was by no means one of 
your model heroes, who are ever ready to “ stand fire,” ei- 
ther physically or morally, and so it happened that this 
look of Mr. Pennythorne’s just sufficed to drive back all 
his warm impulses. He forgot what he was about to say, 
stopped, and his delicate cheek changed color like a girl’s. 

“ Pray go on,” said the host. 

“ I have nothing more to say, sir,” he replied, “ except 
that I feel obliged for your kindness; but, not thinking 
myself competent to do credit to authorship, I had rathe,- 
not attempt it.” Thereby he lost an excellent chance of 
“testifying to the truth,” and will doubtless sink very 
much in the estimation of all who would have virtue and 
genius continually appear in the character of public lec- 
turers. But Philip Wychnor was so reserved and humble- 
minded, that as yet he was unaware of half the treasures 
of his intellect. 


THE OGILVIES. 


141 


Yet, though he could not fathom the depths of his own 
mind, he could see a good way into Mr. Pennythorne’s, and 
the sight was both painful and discouraging. The convex 
sation went on, and Philip listened with the deference that 
his companion’s age and character demanded ; but there 
was a disagreeable sense of uncongeniality, almost amount- 
ing to distrust, in the young man’s mind. 

Mr. Pennythorne did not notice this in the least ; for his 
perception, though acute, was by no means delicate. He 
talked fast and freely, not to say ostentatiously, of his in- 
fluence in other quarters — discussed the various duties and 
advantages of employment as banker’s clerk, merchant’s 
clerk, railway clerk, and Philip’s capacity for the same, un- 
til his young auditor grew half bewildered and wholly dis- 
consolate. At last it was agreed that, as Wychnor had a 
little money for the present, he should stay in lodgings, and 
enter on the weary life of “ waiting for a situation.” This in- 
terregnum would not last long, Mr. Pennythorne was cer- 
tain ; and, indeed, from his conversation, he seemed able to 
scatter appointments abroad as thick as leaves in autumn. 

“Now, my young friend” — Mr. Pennythorne had such a 
host of young friends on his list — “ excuse my making you 
one of the family, and sending you up stairs while I take 
a nap. Old people must be humored, you know. You will 
find the boys in the drawing-room.” 

Philip was not sorry to receive this somewhat unceremo- 
nious conge. As he stood alone on the stairs, he tried to 
collect his thoughts and to struggle with a vague feeling 
of discomfort. 

“ This is very foolish of me !” he said to himself ; “I shall 
not get every one in the world to think and feel exactly 
as I do : how could I expect it ? Mr. Pennythorne seems 
a very good sort of man — kind, too, in his own way : he 
will most likely do something for me ; and then, once get- 
ting a start in life, I have my fortune in my own hands — 
that is, with heaven’s blessing.” And the one reverent as- 
piration of that young pious spirit calmed its jarring doubts 
into patient hope. 


142 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Still,” thought Philip, when, after a prosy evening and 
a walk of three miles, he laid his tired head on his rather 
hard pillow just as St. Pancras’s clock was striking twelve 
— “still, I am rather glad that Mr. Pennythorne did not ask 
my reasons for giving up the Church : he would not have 
understood them any more than Aunt Breynton. I don’t 
think any body does quite understand me except Eleanor.” 

And with that dear name on his lips and in his heart, 
Philip Wychnor fell asleep. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

What is there that I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? 

Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is thronged with suitors ; all the markets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

Tennyson 

Keep thy spirit pure 

From worldly taint by the repellent strength 

Of virtue. * * * 

Walk 

Boldly and wisely in the light thou hast : 

There is a Hand above will help thee on. 

Philip Bailey. 

It is impossible to imagine a life more utterly dull and 
dreary than that of a young man living alone in London, 
with few friends, with no pursuit to occupy his time, and 
with no money to allure him into agreeable or vicious ways 
of killing it. Philip Wychnor thought that each week, 
each day, grew longer and longer. He had read through 
and through all the books he had brought with him, and 
was unable to buy or borrow more. Then he tried to “ rub 
up” his old studies at Oxford ; but working without an aim 
is a thankless occupation. His whole course of life had 
been disturbed, and he could not settle down again. 

He grew tired of his dingy little parlor, where the sun 
just peeped in at early morning ; after which, as though 
disgusted with the place, it departed for the day with the 
breakfast things. So he took to strolling about London, 


THE OGILVIES. 


143 


and philosophizing on human nature in its citizen aspect. 
This soon made him more heart -weary still. He then 
sought after all the places of amusement that were open 
free. Fortunately, among this class London now numbers 
some of its highest and most intellectual feasts. Philip 
spent many an hour at the British Museum, amid the quiet 
gloom of the Elgin-room, until he knew by sight all the 
student votaries of Art who seek to re-create a Theseus or 
an Ilyssus on their drawing-boards. Many a long morn- 
ing, too, did he loiter m the National Gallery ; a place that 
looks always fresh, and pleasant, and sunshiny — for is there 
not perpetual sunshine with Guido, and Titian, and Claude? 
Often and often Philip entered with his spirit so broken 
and desponding that the May brightness and cheerfulness 
of the streets seemed only to insult his lonely poverty. He 
knew nothing of Art save through the spell by which its 
glory and beauty must ever influence minds like his own ; 
but the spirit of Guido spoke peace to him through the 
mournful-eyed Magdalene, or the Child Jesus with its face 
of pale purity gazed on by reverent John ; while grand 
and solemn loomed out of the darkness the figure of Piom- 
bo’s Lazarus, and in Da Vinci’s Ecce Homo the suffering 
God-man looked in sublime compassion on the Virgin’s 
mother-woe. Pictures such as these Philip loved best, lor 
in this season of anxiety their sorrowful and holy beauty 
touched and soothed his spirit. 

And, turning for a moment from our story to the individ- 
ual memories which its progress brings, let us linger in the 
place whither we have led Philip Wychnor; a place so full 
of old associations that even while thinking of it we lay 
down our pen and sigh. Good, careless reader, mayhap 
you never knew what it was to lead a life in which sorrow 
formed the only change from monotony — a life so solitary 
that dream-companions alone people it; nor how, looking 
back on that dull desert of time, one remembers lovingly 
the pleasant spots that brightened it here and there — how, 
in traversing the old haunts, our feet linger, even while we 
contrast gladly and thankfully the present with the past; 


144 


THE OGILVIES. 


else you would no-t wonder that we stay for a moment with 
our Philip Wychnor, walking in fancy from room to room, 
gazing at every well-known picture, whose beautiful and 
benign influence was so blessed to us of old, and seeing 
also living faces that were once beside us there — some, 
most dear of all on earth ; others, on whom we shall never 
more look until we behold them in heaven. 

The theme grows too solemn. Readers — whom at times 
every author takes strangely enough into his heart’s depths, 
as he takes not even those who sit at his board and drink 
of his cup — if you can understand this digression, you will 
forgive it ; if not, pass it by. 

Philip Wychnor had no acquaintance in London except 
the Pennythornes. He went to Blank Square sometimes by 
invitation, and now and then without. But he had a great 
belief in that verse of the Proverbs — “Refrain thy foot 
from thy neighbor’s house, lest he be weary of thee, and so 
hate thee;” therefore his visits always kept within due lim- 
its. Still it was undeniable that he took pleasure in being 
received with friendliness into this always hospitable house 
— for hospitality was one of Mr. Pennythorne’s virtues. 
True, the family circle was somewhat dull if its head 
chanced to be absent ; but then, in Philip’s present state 
of isolation, any family fireside was a welcome change from 
the solitary dreariness of his own. So he grew to take 
pleasure in Mrs. Pennythorne’s meaningless but good-tem- 
pered smile, and Mr. Pennythorne’s unfailing talk — the very 
ostentatiousness of which was amusing. With the youn- 
ger members of the household Philip’s acquaintance ad- 
vanced little; for Frederick was rarely at home in the even- 
ing, and Leigh maintained the same dull, almost sullen si- 
lence. Now and then, when Philip chanced to talk a little 
more earnestly than usual, he detected the large brown 
eyes watching him with curious intentness ; but if he re- 
turned the look they fell at once, and Leigh’s countenance 
relapsed into its customary stolidity. Still, when Philip’s 
thoughts wanted occupation, they sometimes turned to 
speculate on this rather singular boy. 


THE OGILVIES. 


145 


Alas for Philip — he had only too much time for thinking ; 
and as month after month rolled on, and he had still no oc- 
cupation, his thoughts became mournful indeed. Each 
week Eleanor sent him one of her long cheering letters — 
no young-lady epistles nor romantic love-breathings, but a 
sensible woman’s letters ; thoughtful, sincere, and full of 
that truest affection which expresses itself less in words 
than in deeds. She knew not that, but for these letters, 
her lover’s mind would have sunk from its healthy tone 
and manly strength into the morbid apathy of delayed 
hope, or the misanthropy and bitterness of despair. 

It was not the sting of actual poverty that Philip felt 
so keenly. True, it requires a degree of moral courage to 
brave the summer sunshine of London streets in a thread- 
bare coat, and it is rather a trial of patience to sit down to 
a fragment of homely, ill-cooked dinner ; but these are, aft- 
er all, only externalities, and very endurable. When the 
mind has its own food of present content, and a certainty, 
if ever so little, for the future, a well-earned dish of potatoes 
is by no means such a miserable repast ; and a man with a 
pure conscience, and hope in his bosom, can button over it 
his shabby garment, and walk the street with a brow as 
clear — ay, and as lofty — as any of his brethren in the pur- 
ple and fine linen of the world. 

Therefore, as Philip Wychnor had always held his body 
much less precious than his soul, we shall not pity him for 
any of these endurances. He would have scorned it. But 
deepest pity, indeed, he needed, during that weary summer, 
when the agony of uncertainty, the tortures of “sitting still 
and doing nothing,” gnawed into his very soul. Poor fel- 
low ! many a time he envied the stonebreaker in the street, 
who at least had the comfort of working all day and was 
certain of his future. At last he went to Mr. Pennythorne, 
and spoke openly, earnestly — almost despairingly. 

“ My good fellow !” exclaimed, with some surprise, that 
excellent individual — he had seen the young man come 
to his house now and then, to dinner or tea, with a com- 
posed countenance and decent dress, so felt his conscience 


146 


THE OGILVIES. 


quite at ease respecting his protege — 1 had no idea 
that you were in such a plight as this: you never com- 
plained.” 

“ Is it likely I should, sir?” said Philip, proudly. “ Nor 
do I now ; I am very thankful for all the efforts which I 
believe you have made on my behalf, but I begin to think 
there is no occupation to be had — at least, none that I can 
do. The misfortune lies in my being brought up that very 
useless thing — a gentleman.” And Philip laughed bitter- 
ly. “ However, I can remedy this ; I will leave London, 
change my name, and get work as a farmer’s laborer. A 
mechanic’s place is above me, unfortunately, as I had not 
even the blessing of learning a trade. But work I must 
have, or I shall go mad.” 

“ I begin to think you are so already,” muttered Mr. Pen- 
ny thorne, as with some touch of compassion he regarded 
the young man’s wild eyes and haggard face. A faint whis- 
per of conscience, too, hinted that he himself had not used 
Philip quite well : not but that he had tried to serve him 
— writing to two or three friends, and speaking to two or 
three more, about “a young man who wanted employ- 
ment.” But Mr. Penny thorne had erred where most osten- 
tatious patronizing men err ; and woful is the misery which 
they bring on their dependents by the same — promising 
far too much, and boasting of imaginary influence, to grati- 
fy a petty love of power. 

There never yet was human heart so naturally cold, or 
so frozen over by outward formalities, that you could not 
find in one corner or other some fountain of goodness bub- 
bling up. No matter how soon it disappears — it has been, 
and therefore may be again. Now just such a spring as 
this began to irrigate that very dry and dusty portion of 
Mr. Penny thorne’s anatomy which lay under his left waist- 
coat pocket; and, by a curious sympathy between external 
and internal things, he remembered that there was in this 
said pocket a five-pound note. His fingers even advanced 
nearer to it — they touched it — but just at this moment a 
loud, fashionable knock came to the hall door, and the tiny 


THE OGILVIES. 


147 


fountain in Mr. Pennythorne’s heart sank suddenly down. 
Still, it had watered a little the arid soil around. 

“ Come and dine with me to-morrow, my dear boy,” he 
said, cordially ; “ and cheer up. I’ll think of something 
for you by that time.” 

“ To-morrow — to-morrow — to-morrow,” sighed Philip, 
mechanically repeating that word of mournful beguiling. 
As he descended, he passed in the hall a stylish little lady, 
who had just stepped from her carriage, and was busy im- 
pressing on the servant “ Mrs. Lancaster’s wish for only 
five minutes’ speech of Mr. Pennythorne.” Philip stood 
aside to let the visitor pass by, and then departed. He 
crept wearily along the sunny side of the square, all glare, 
and dust, and burning heat ; and there came idly jingling 
through his brain, in that season of care so dull, heavy, and 
numbing, as to shut out all consecutive thought, the frag- 
ment of olden rhyme — 

Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 

The hart ungalled play ; 

For some must watch, while some must sleep ; 

Thus runs the world away. 

It so chanced that Mr. Pennythorne, working hard all 
that day at a review of a book which he had had no time 
to read, and in the evening busily engaged dispensing his 
bons mots and amusing sneers in Mrs. Lancaster’s gay 
drawing-room, never thought again of Philip Wychnor un- 
til his wife asked him the next morning what he would 
have for dinner. Mr. Pennythorne’s sway, be it known, ex- 
tended even to the comestibles of his household. 

“Dear me — that reminds me that I asked young Wych- 
nor to dine here, and I promised to think of something for 
him. Really, how tiresome are these fellows in want of 
employment !” And the old gentleman cogitated for at 
least five minutes with his chin on his hand. At last a 
brilliant thought struck him. 

“ Cillie, my dear.” 

“ Yes, Pierce.” 

“How much did that young Johnson — the fellow that 
G 2 


148 


THE OGILVIES. 


came yesterday, you know, to ask if I wanted a tutor for 
Leigh — how much did he charge "by the lesson ?” 

“ Half a guinea for two hours ; only he wanted his lunch 
as well, and you said that would — ” 

“Tut ! tut ! how women’s tongues do run! Mrs. Penn y- 
thorne, will you be so obliging as to go down stairs? and 
when I need your advice and conversation I will ring the 
bell.” And Mr. Pennythorne politely opened the door for 
his wife, shut her out, and returned to his easy-chair. 

“ That will just do — a capital plan !” said he, rubbing his 
hands with an air of benevolent satisfaction. “ How thank- 
ful the poor fellow will be ! Of course, one could not give 
him so much as a professed tutor. Let me see — say four 
hours at half a guinea, and that twice a week : a very good 
thing for him — very good indeed. He ought to be quite 
satisfied, and very thankful. It will save me time and 
trouble too, for that young Leigh is getting confoundedly 
stupid ; so I shall kill two birds with one stone. Really, 
what a deal of good one can do in the world if one tries !” 

With a pleasing conviction of his own generosity, Mr. 
Pennythorne leaned back in his chair, and summoned his 
wife, to give orders for a turbot and lamb, with a dish of 
game to follow. 

“Young Wychnor is coming here to-day,” he added, be- 
nevolently. “ I dare say he does not get such a dinner ev- 
ery day.” 

He certainly did not — but Mr. Pennythorne did — very 
often. Therefore he was obliged, alas ! to pay his son’s tu- 
tor only two shillings and sevenpence halfpenny for each 
hour’s instruction in Latin, Greek, and Mathematics. 


THE OGILVIES. 


149 


CHAPTER XX. 

Should the Body sue the Mind before a court of judicature for damages, 
it would be found that the Mind would prove to have been a ruinous ten- 
ant to its landlord. — Plutarch. 

Can I love thee, my beloved — can I love thee ? 

And is this like love, to stand 
With no help in my hand, 

When strong as death I fain would watch above thee? 

May God love thee, my beloved, may God love thee ! 

E. B. Browning. 

The five-pound note found its way into Philip’s pocket 
after all. To be sure, it came diluted into guinea-drops at 
not very regular intervals, but still it did come, and Mr. 
Pennythorne had done a benevolent action. He felt sure 
of this himself, and so did Mrs. Pennythorne. Moreover, 
the latter often added to the benevolence by giving Philip 
a glass of wine and a sandwich when he came in, hot and 
exhausted, after his three-mile walk. These were not “ nom- 
inated in the bond,” and Philip took them gratefully. The 
trifling kindness was better than the gold. 

He had at first little pleasure in teaching Leigh Penny- 
thorne. He gave his instruction carefully, patiently, kind- 
ly, but it never seemed to penetrate beyond the outward 
layer of the boy’s dull, overworked brain. The soil had 
been plowed, and sown over and over again, until there 
was no vestige of fertility left in it. Philip tried to inter- 
est his young pupil — to make a friend of him ; but the 
heart seemed as dead as the brain. Now and then there 
would come a gleam of speculation into the heavy eyes; 
but it was only a passing light, and the youth’s face sank 
again into its vacant dreariness. 

“ Leigh has got plenty of brains, only they require a 
great deal of hammering to knock out the laziness,” said 
the father. 

“ Leigh has grown the sulkiest fellow that ever lived, 


150 


THE OGILVIES. 


over those stupid books. By Jove ! I’m glad nobody ever 
put it into father’s head that I was clever,” laughed Mr. 
Frederick. 

“ Poor Leigh ! I wonder why he will make himself ill 
with sitting over the fire and never going out ?” Mrs.Pen- 
nythorne would sometimes lament ; but she never dared to 
say more — hardly to think. 

So the boy grew paler and duller every day, but still he 
must work — work — for the time w^as going by, and Mr. 
Pennythorne was determined to have a man of learning in 
the family. His credit was at stake, for he had vaunted 
every where his son’s classic acquirements, and the boast 
should be made good in spite of “ that lazy Leigh.” Morn- 
ing and night the father attacked him. “ Study — study !” 
was forever dinned into his ears ; so, at last, the boy rare- 
ly stirred out of his own little den. There he sat, with his 
books heaped up around him : they helped to build the al- 
tar-pile on which the deluded father was offering up his 
victim. 

Philip Wychnor saw very little of all this, or his truth- 
ful tongue could not have kept silence. He was sorry for 
the boy, and tried to make the few hours during which he 
himself guided his studies as little like labor as possible ; 
and if ever Leigh’s countenance brightened into interest or 
intelligence, it was during the time that he was alone with 
his gentle teacher. That teacher was, himself, fast yield- 
ing to the effects of the desolate and anxious summer 
through which he had passed. It had prostrated all his 
bodily energies, and his mind sank with them. He felt as 
though he were gradually drawing nearer and nearer into 
the shadow of some terrible illness which he could not 
avert. Every day he rose up with the thought, “ Well, I 
wonder what will become of me before night !” and every 
night, when he lay down on his bed, it was under a vague 
impression that he might not rise from it again. 

At last, one morning, when he left the Pennythornes, he 
felt so ill that he ventured to expend sixpence in a ride 
home — almost his last coin, poor fellow ! for it wanted some 


THE OGILVIES. 


151 


days of the month’s end, and Mr. Pennythorne was never 
beforehand in his disbursements. As he sat in the corner 
of the omnibus with his hat drawn over his aching eyes, 
he felt conscious of nothing save the dull rolling of the ve- 
hicle which carried him somewhere — he hardly knew where. 
There w r as a crying child near him, and a lady with a sharp- 
toned voice, who drew her silk robes from the babe’s greasy 
fingers, and glared angrily at its shabbily-clad mother, mut- 
tering not inaudibly, “ What very disagreeable people one 
meets in omnibuses !” About King William Street there 
was a stoppage in the street, and a consequent pushing of 
passengers’ heads out of the window, with a general mur- 
mur about a woman having been run over. All these 
things Philip’s eye and ear perceived as through a dense 
confused mist — he sat in his corner and never stirred. 

“What unfeelingness!” muttered the lady - passenger 
with the silk dress, who seemed to find her own self such 
very dull company that she spent her whole time in watch- 
ing and commenting on other people. 

“ Totten’-co’t-road,” bawled out the conductor; and Phil- 
ip was just conscious of making a movement to alight, and 
being assisted out by a little old man who sat by the 
door. 

“ Money, sir !” the omnibus man shouted indignantly, as 
Philip turned away. He took out a shilling and hastily 
went on. 

“ Gen’lemen drunk never wants no change,” said the 
conductor, with a broad grin that made all the passengers 
laugh except the odd-looking little old man. As he stood 
on the step in the act of descending, he threw back on the 
conductor the most frowning glance of which his mild, 
good-natured eyes were capable. 

Philip walked on a little way into a quiet street, and 
there leaned against a railing, utterly unable to stand. A 
touch at his elbow startled him : it was the queer old man 
in the omnibus. 

“ Afraid you’re ill, sir,” said the most deprecating and 
yet kindly voice in the world. 


152 


THE OGILYIES. 


“No — yes — perhaps so — the day is so hot,” murmured 
Philip ; and then he fainted in the street. 

Luckily, he had upon him a card. Oppressed with the 
presentiment of sudden illness, he always took this precau- 
tion. The little old man called a cab and took him home. 
That night Philip Wychnor lay smitten with fever on his 
poor pallet-bed in the close back attic of Street. 

At the same hour Eleanor was passing up and down un- 
der the lime-tree shadow of the palace garden, thinking of 
her betrothed. She pictured him in busy London, at work 
bravely, steadily, hopefully. Perchance she almost envied 
his lot of active employment, while she herself had to bear 
many home trials — to walk in the old paths, and see Phil- 
ip’s face there no more — to have one constant thought of 
Philip in her heart, and yet fear to utter his name. Faith- 
ful Eleanor, could she have seen him now ! 

Oh, why is love so powerless — so vain ? infinite in will, 
yet how bounded in power ! We would fain spread -world- 
extended wings of shelter and comfort over our beloved, 
and yet in our helplessness we may let them sink, suffer, 
die, alone ! Strange and sad it is, that we, who would brave 
alike life’s toil and death’s agony — ay, lay down body and 
soul at the feet of our dearest ones — can not bring ease to 
the lightest pain which their humanity may endure. 

Yet there is a wondrous might in loving — a might al- 
most divine. May it not be that there are Those around 
us whose whole spiritual being, transfused with love, de- 
lights to aid where our human affection fails, unable to ful- 
fill its longings — who stand in our stead, and give to our 
vain blessings, our almost weeping prayers, our solitary 
outpouring of fondest words, a strength so omnipotent that 
our beloved may feel in their souls the mysterious influ- 
ence, and draw thence comfort and joy ? 

And if so, when, as poor sick Philip watched the creep- 
ing sunshine along the dusky wall — the blessed, thoughtful 
sunshine which in London always visits most the poverty- 
stricken attic, or when, during his long restless nights, the 
pure moonlight came in like a flood, and in his half-delirh 


THE OGILVIES. 


153 


ous mood he thought it was the waving of an angel’s wing, 
who knows but that the faithful love which rose up to 
heaven in an unceasing prayer for him may have fallen 
down again on his spirit in a holy dew of blessing and of 
peace ? 

Rejoice, oh thou who lovest, if thine be that pure love 
which dares stand in the sight of God with its shining face 
unveiled — so holy that thou tremblest not to breathe it in 
thy prayers — so free from earth’s taint that it can look on 
the divider, Death, without fear or sorrow, feeling that then 
its highest life begins ! Be strong and faint not — be faith- 
ful and doubt not — whatever clouds and thick darkness of 
human fate may stand between thee and thy heart’s desire. 
How knowest thou but that the sunburst of thy strong love 
may pierce through all, and rest on thy beloved — a glory 
and a blessing — though whence it cometh, or how, may 
never be revealed ? 


CHAPTER XXL 

He had grown dusty with groping all his life in the graves of dead lan- 
guages. — Charles Dickens. 

Much more is said of knowledge than ’tis worth ; 

A man may gain all knowledge here, and yet 

Be after death as much i’ the dark as I. — Philip Bailey. 

Philip was ill many days — how many he never counted, 
and there was no tender nurse to count them for him. He 
struggled through his illness like numberless others to 
whom sickness and poverty come together. One wonders 
how such poor desolate sufferers survive. And yet Death 
often passes the penury-stricken, misery-haunted chamber, 
to stand at the foot of the well-tended couch around which 
gathers an army of doctors and nurses. Amidst all, in 
spite of all, sounds in the rich man’s ear the low, awful 
whisper, “Thou must come away.” 

Life is to the young an ever-renewed fountain of hope ; 
and Philip Wychnor, when lie arose from his sickness, was 


154 


THE OGILVIES. 


by no means so disconsolate as might have been expected. 
Under the hardest circumstances there is always a vague 
happiness in the first dawn of returning health. As the 
poor invalid managed to walk to the window, and sat 
watching as much of a glorious sunset as that fortunate 
elevation permitted, there was a patient content on his pale 
face which made the cross-grained old landlady say quite 
tenderly when she brought him his tea and toast, “ Dear 
heart alive ! how nice and well you are a-looking to-day, 
sir !” 

In truth, there were a sweetness and a beauty about 
Philip’s face that would have softened any heart wherein 
lingered one drop of kindly womanhood ; and, thank Heav- 
en ! there are few utterly without. 

The young man finished his poor repast almost with an 
appetite, and then leaned back in. the twilight, too weak 
for consecutive thought, but still giving way to a quiet, 
pleasant dreaminess. He was conscious only of a vague 
craving to have the dear soft eyes that he knew looking 
peace upon him — to rest like a weary child with his head 
on her shoulder, his hand in hers, without speaking or mov- 
ing. And as he lay still, with closed eyes, the strong fan- 
tasy seemed to grow into a reality. 

As Philip reclined in this dreamy state, the door opened 
softly, and through it appeared, to his great astonishment, 
the long, thin face of Leigh Pennythorne. The boy looked 
round the room, and started back when he saw Philip, who 
turned and held out his hand. 

“ How good of you to come and see me !” he said, feebly. 
Leigh sprang forward, wrung the poor wan hand two or 
three times, and tried to speak, but in vain. At last he 
took out his old cotton pocket-handkerchief and began to 
cry like a child. 

Philip, quite astonished at this display of feeling, could 
only lay his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and then leaned 
back too exhausted for speech. Leigh began to be alarmed. 

“I hope I sha’n’t do you any harm ; I don’t mean to,” he 
said, between his sobs. “ I am downright ashamed of my- 


THE OGILYIES. 


155 


self, that I am — a great boy like me ; but I did not expect 
you were out of bed; and I was so glad to see you better, 
Mr. Wychnor.” 

“ Thank you — thank you, Leigh,” was the faint answer. 

“ There, now, don’t talk ; I sha’n’t. I’ve got all my books 
here;” and he hauled after him a great blue bag. “Just 
go to sleep again, and call me when you want any thing, 
will you ?” said the boy, insensibly relapsing into his lan- 
guid drawl. He seated himself on the other side the win- 
dow, and leaned his gaunt elbows on the sill, with the eter- 
nal book between them. But how far this was a kindly 
pretense, the quick glances which the brown eyes were 
ever stealing at Philip easily revealed. 

“ Leigh !” said the invalid, after a pause. 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the old school-boy voice — so differ- 
ent from the impassioned tone of a few minutes before. 

“ Don’t call me sir — you can not think how glad I am to 
see you, my dear boy !” And Philip clasped the cold, spi- 
der-like hand affectionately, for his heart was touched. 

“Glad — are you, Mr. Wychnor? Well, you’re the first 
who ever was glad to see me — or who told me so.” There 
was a tone half bitter, half despondent, piercing through 
the boy’s apathy, but Philip took no notice of it. 

“ How did you know I was ill ?” he asked. 

“ Oh, I could easily see that the last day you came. I 
watched you down our square, and into the omnibus — I 
hope you’ll not be offended at that, Mr. Wychnor?” and 
the sallow cheek of the shy boy reddened visibly. Phil- 
ip pressed his hand, and Leigh brightened up more and 
more. 

“ I said to myself that you must be ill, as you never rode 
home before ; so the next day, when the governor dined 
out, I came over here to see.” 

“ How kind — you, who never care to stir from home !” 

“ Oh, it was a change — I rather liked it; and as for being 
tired, that don’t signify — I always am tired ;” and Leigh 
smiled languidly. “ I have been here very often since then, 
only you were light-headed, and did not know me.” 

11 


156 


THE OGILVJFS. 


“ But they told me I had a fever. Oh, Leigh, if you 
should take it !” said Philip, hurriedly. 

“Don’t mind that ; I heard the doctor say it wasn’t catch- 
ing ; and if it were, I should not be afraid. It would be 
rather pleasant to have a fever, and then I should not work. 
But there’s no danger, so don’t make yourself uncomfort- 
able.” 

“ But your father?” 

“ Oh, he knows nothing about it, I managed all so clev- 
erly. Guess how ! I wrote a letter in your name, saying 
you had fallen down and sprained your foot, so that you 
would be glad if father would let me take the lessons here, 
and you’d give an extra one each week. I knew that would 
catch the old governor !” and an expression in which the 
glee of childhood and the sarcasm of manhood were con- 
joined passed over the boy’s face. “ The writing looked 
just like yours, and 1 put it in the post-office at Southamp- 
ton Row. He never found out the cheat. How should he ? 
So I used to come over regularly with my books — and then 
I took care of you.” 

Philip was struck dumb by the strange mixture of affec - 
tion and duplicity, generosity and utter neglect of truth or 
duty, which the boy’s conduct exhibited. But the good 
was Leigh’s own nature — the evil, the result of his educa- 
tion. Philip, weak and ill as he was, had no power to argue 
the right and wrong of the case. He only felt the influ- 
ence of this sudden upspringing of affection toward him- 
self ; it came to him like waters in a dry land— he could 
not thrust it from him, though much that was evil mingled 
in the fountain’s source. 

Leigh went on talking as fast as though he had a twelve- 
month’s arrears of silence to make up at once. “I told 
the landlady I was your cousin — she and I got very good 
friends — I used to pay her every week.” 

“ Pay her ?” echoed Philip, as a thought of his empty 
purse flashed across his mind. 

“ Oh yes — of course, father sent the money for the lessons 
just as usual — it did very nicely — or I really don’t know 


THE OGILVIES. 


157 


how I could have got you what you wanted during your 
illness. But I shall talk too much for you. Hadn’t you 
better lie down again?” The advice did not come too 
soon, for Philip, bewildered and exhausted, had sunk back 
in his chair. 

In a moment the dull, stupid Leigh Pennythorne became 
changed into the most active and skillful of nurses — gentle 
and thoughtful as a woman. His apathetic manner, his lazy 
drawl, seemed to vanish at once. He tended Philip, and even 
wept over him with a remorseful affection that was touch- 
ing to witness. 

Oh ye hard parents, who look upon your offspring as 
your mere property, to be brought up for your pleasure or 
pride, never remembering that each child will live, through 
eternity, an independent, self-existing being — that the Be- 
stower of these young spirits gives them not, but lends — 
“ Take this child, and nurse it for J/e” — think what a fear- 
ful thing it is to have upon your heads the destruction of 
a human soul ! 

Philip, left to himself, thought much and anxiously of the 
best course to pursue; and by the best Philip Wychnor al- 
ways meant the right ; he never turned aside to expedien- 
cies. Once his upright, truthful mind prompted him to 
write the whole story to Mr. Pennythorne ; but then he 
soon saw how terrible would be the result to Leigh. He 
would not give up the poor boy whose fragile life seemed 
to owe its sole brightness to his own affection. So, as the 
young teacher himself gathered strength, he set about the 
cure of this poor diseased mind, trying to bend it straight, 
as he would a tree which wrong culture had warped aside, 
not with a sudden wrench, but by a gradual influence; so 
that, ere long, he made Leigh see and acknowledge his er- 
rors. And all this he did so gently, that while the boy’s 
spirit opened to the light, he loved more than ever the 
hand which brought it, even though the brightness of 
truth revealed in his heart much evil that oppressed him 
with shame. 

“ And now,” said Philip, one day, as Leigh sat beside 


158 


THE OGILVIES. 


him listening to his gentle arguments, “ what are we to 
do to amend all this ?” 

“ I don’t know. Do you decide,” answered Leigh, hum- 
bly. 

“ Go and tell your father, what is indeed the truth, that 
I have been too ill to give you your lessons, but that you 
had not courage to say this, and continued coming here 
still. Surely he can not be angry, since this was from 
kindness to me.” 

Leigh shook his head. “ I’ll do it, however, if you say 
so. You must be right, Mr. Wychnor, and I don’t care 
what happens' to myself.” 

“And tell your father, too, from me,” continued Philip, 
“that I will make up all the missed lessons as soon as ever 
I recover. I could not rest with this load on my mind.” 
There was a look of surprise and tenderness in the large 
wistful eyes which now seemed ever reading Philip’s face. 

“You must be a very good man, Mr. Wychnor. You 
do and say the sort of things that I used to read of long 
ago when I had books I liked — I don’t mean these !” and 
he kicked the blue bag disdainfully. “I fancied I should 
meet in real life the same sort of goodness, but I never 
did ; and so, at last, I thought it was only found in poetry 
and novels. I don’t now, though.” 

Philip made no answer to this simple, child-like confes- 
sion, but it went to his heart. He vowed within himself 
that while the boy lived he would not part from him, but 
would strive through all difficulties to guide this frail 
struggling spirit to the light. 

Mr. Pennythorne was rather indignant at having been 
deceived, but his parental dignity grew mollified by the 
humble behavior of his son. 

“ Leigh is not half so sulky as he used to be, and he gets 
on very well with young Wychnor,” he observed to Mrs. 
Pennythorne. “It is not worth while breaking up the 
lessons, when the lad came himself and told of his own 
error. However, he must apologize properly, for I can not 
have my authority set at naught.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


159 


The mother deferentially suggested that it did poor 
Leigh so much good to go out every day ; and so the end 
of the matter was, that Mr. Pennythorne graciously ac- 
ceded to the lessons being given at Philip’s home, the ex- 
tra one being still continued. 

“ And about the money already received ?” said Philip, 
anxiously, when his young pupil brought the message. 
“Will your father wait until I can return it?” Leigh 
blushed crimson, and turned to the window. 

“ Oh, he is quite satisfied on that account ; you are not 
to think about it any more.” 

“How kind !” And in Philip’s first uneasiness and quick- 
springing gratitude he never noticed Leigh’s confusion. 
The boy had sold his watch — his pet plaything and com- 
panion — to pay his father the money. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in A5sop were extremely 
wise : they had a great mind to some water, but they would not leap into 
a well because they could not get out again. — Selden. 

A coxcomb is ugly all over with the affectation of a fine gentleman. — 
Steele. 

In the bay-window of a somewhat tawdry London draw- 
ing-room stood a lady alone. She was looking toward the 
street more through idleness than curiosity, for she kept 
restlessly beating time with her riding- whip on her gloved 
hand. You could not see her face, except the outline of 
the cheek and graceful little ear, but these wore all the 
beautiful roundness of early youth ; and her tall figure, 
which the dark riding-habit so well displayed, had an al- 
most statue-like perfection in its curves. 

By degrees the impatient little hand grew still, the fair 
head drooped, and with her brow leaning against the win- 
dow-pane the young girl stood for some minutes in thought. 
The fact itself showed how young she was. After twenty, 
one’s ponderings usually grow too deep and earnest to be 


160 


THE OGILVIES. 


expended in light and sudden reveries. A voice outside 
and an opened door broke in upon these musings, and 
caused the young girl to turn round. It was Katharine 
Ogilvie. 

“ Dear me, Katharine, how you are altered !” exclaimed 
the lady who entered the room, also an old acquaintance 
of ours, whom we have left so long to pursue the sole aim 
of her life, matrimony, that we feel almost ashamed to in- 
troduce her as still Miss Isabella Worsley. 

“ I never saw such a change !” continued she, in genuine 
astonishment, which really was not at all surprising. 
Eleanor had proved right in her conjecture ; one could 
hardly see any where a more graceful and beautiful young 
creature than Katharine Ogilvie at nineteen. “ Why, what 
has made such a difference in you ?” continued Isabella, 
“ eying her over” from head to foot. 

Katharine smiled, and a faint color rose into her cheek : 
a lovely cheek it was too ; no longer sallow, but of a clear 
pale brown, under which the rich blood wandered, at times 
suffusing it with a peach-like glow. “You know it is near- 
ly three years since you saw me, Isabella and as she 
spoke a deeper and more womanly thrill might have been 
traced in her silvery voice. 

“ Three years ! nay, I am sure it is not nearly so much,” 
said Isabella, with some little acerbity. She began to find 
it rather irksome to count years. 

“Indeed it is, all but two months. It will be three years 
next February — I mean January;” and Katharine’s color 
grew a shade deeper as she continued more quickly, “Yes, 
it was in January that you came, Isabella — you, and Liz- 
zie, and George — and we had, besides, Eleanor and Hugh. 
What a merry time it was !” 

“ You seem to remember it exceedingly well,” said Isa- 
bella, pointedly, and not altogether without ill nature. 

“ Certainly I do ;” and the beautiful head was lifted a 
little, with an air of dignity not unmixed with pride. It 
showed Isabella at once that where she had left the child 
she had found the woman. She turned the conversation 
immediately. 


THE OGILYIES. 


161 


“We have been looking for you all the morning, Kath- 
arine. It is so horridly dull to be up in town when every 
body else is out of it ; living in lodgings too, with nobody 
but mamma. I wish this disagreeable law business were 
over. But come, my dear girl, take of* your hat and let 
us talk. How long have you to stay with me this morn- 
ing ?” 

“ My father will come for me in an hour or two, if he 
can get away from the House. Otherwise he will be sure 
to send Hugh.” 

“ Hugh ! Really I shall be quite delighted to see cousin 
Hugh ! Is he altered ?” and the sharp eyes fixed them- 
selves observantly on Katharine’s face. 

“ Oh no ! Hugh is just the same as ever,” answered the 
young girl, with a merry laugh, as she stood braiding back 
the thick black hair which had fallen in taking off her hat. 
The attitude was so unconstrained — so perfectly graceful 
— that Isabella’s envious heart acknowledged perforce the 
exceeding beauty of her cousin. 

“ And Hugh stays at Summerwood as much as he used 
to do ?” she pursued, keeping up the same scrutiny. 

“ Oh yes ! I don’t know what papa would do without 
him, now he is himself in Parliament. Hugh manages ev- 
ery thing at the Park ; takes care of the farming and the 
shooting — of mamma, of Brown Bess, and of myself.” 

“So I suppose.” 

“ Besides, he can hardly feel settled any where else, now 
that Eleanor lives with Mrs. Breynton.” 

“Ah ! tell me all about that. How odd it was of Eleanor 
to go and live entirely with a stupid old woman ! But 
perhaps she had plenty of money to leave ?” 

Katharine’s proud lip curled. “ Eleanor is not a legacy- 
hunter, I imagine,” she answered, coldly. 

“ I really did not intend to vex you, my dear,” said Miss 
Worsley. “Of course, Hugh’s sister is all perfection — to 
you.” 

“What did you say, Isabella ?” asked the quiet and rath- 
er haughty voice. 


162 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Oh, nothing, nothing. You see, Eleanor and I never 
took to one another much, though we are cousins, and so 
we never correspond ; therefore all I know of her proceed- 
ings is from hearsay. Pray enlighten me, Katharine ; I do 
love a nice little bit of mystery.” 

“ There is really no mystery about the matter,” answer- 
ed Katharine, smiling. “ I have not seen my cousin much 
of late, and her letters are rather short than otherwise, and 
contain very little about herself I know no more than 
every one else does — that, being an orphan and sisterless, 
she likes to live with an old lady who was her mother’s 
friend and is very fond of herself. There is nothing very 
mysterious in this — is there ?” 

“ Oh no ! only I was rather curious about the matter — 
for Eleanor’s sake, of course,” said the young lady. We 
call her so par excellence, as Isabella was essentially one of 
those carefully manufactured articles which the boarding- 
school creates and “ society” finishes. There is a German 
fairy fable of the Elle-women, who are all fair in front, but, 
if you walk round them, hollow as a piece of stamped leath- 
er. Perhaps this is a myth of young-lady-hood. 

Our young lady , then, finding it impossible to pump from 
Katharine any thing that administered to her vanity or 
her love of gossip, began to feel the conversation growing 
rather tiresome ; so she took out a piece of fancy-work, and 
having tried to engage her visitor’s admiration of it, set 
her to wind some Berlin wool, doubtless thinking within 
herself how stupid it was to talk to girls, and wishing for 
the arrival of any two-legged animal in coat and hat to re- 
lieve the tedium of this morning call. And — as if at that 
auspicious moment Fortunatus’s wishing-cap had adorned 
her head, instead of the pretty little nondescript fabric of 
wool which she wore, partly for warmth, partly because 
any sort of matronly coif sets off a passe face advantageous- 
ly ! — lo ! there was a terrific thundering at the hall door, 
and the servant appeared with a card. 

“ Mr. Frederick Penny thorne,” read Isabella. “ Show him 
up immediately.” And with an air of satisfaction she 


THE OGILVIES. 


163 


glanced at the mirror, and went through one or two small 
ceremonies of dress-arranging with which fair damsels of 
her stamp always honor the approach of an individual in 
broadcloth. 

“A matter of business, I conclude?” observed Katharine, 
“ as you said you had no friends in town now. Shall I be 
in the way ?” 

“ Oh no, not in the least. The fact is, that Mr. Penny- 
thorne is the solicitor in our suit — quite a rising young 
man ; not disagreeable either. He calls often — rather oft- 
ener than is quite necessary for the law business” — (here 
Isabella cast her eyes down with an affected smile, and tit- 
tered exceedingly) — “ so, Katharine, it is perhaps as well 
for you to be here, as mamma is so very particular. But 
I suppose you have not got to these things yet, my dear ; 
and, indeed — ” 

Open sesame ! — videlicet the drawing-room door — and 
enter Mr. Frederick Pennythorne ! Then came due greet- 
ing and introduction, and the small rattle of conversation 
began. It was just such as might have been expected from 
the two principal interlocutors, for Katharine took little 
part in it. With instinctive, but in this case quite super- 
fluous delicacy, she soon retired to the window; and if 
once or twice her eyes wandered toward Isabella and the 
new visitor, her gaze was induced by a far deeper feeling 
than idle curiosity. To her, all lovers and all love were 
sacred, and she felt for the first time a sympathy with her 
cousin. The young unsuspicious heart saw in all others 
but the likeness of its own: the true could not even divine 
the false. 

Yet a little, a very little, did Katharine marvel, when the 
light laugh and unconcerned chatter of her cousin struck 
her ear. Love seemed to her such a deep, earnest thing — 
and there was Isabella all carelessness and merriment, even 
in the presence of her lover. Lover ! As Katharine glanced 
at the easy, self-complacent rattler of small compliments, a 
feeling came over her very like self-scorn for having so mis- 
applied the word. And. turning away from the mean pret- 

H 


164 


THE OGILVIES. 


tiness of the well-arranged smirking visage, with its small 
lappets of whisker meeting under the chin, and its unmis- 
takable air of “ Don’t you see what a good-looking fellow 
I am?” there rose up before her the shadowy likeness of 
another and very different face. Then Katharine, smiling 
to herself a proud, joyous smile, did not even think again 
of Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. That gentleman, on his 
part, was inclined to return the somewhat negative compli- 
ment. People like himself feel an extreme aversion to be- 
ing looked down upon, either corporeally or mentally. 
Katharine Ogilvie, unfortunately, did both ; and the man- 
ner in which she received his first compliment effectually 
prevented his hazarding a second. He found his small 
mind quite out of its depths, and floundered back as quick- 
ly as possible to the protecting shallows of Miss Worsley’s 
easy talk. When Katharine was startled out of her pleas- 
ant silence by the announcement of the visitor’s departure, 
all that passed between them was a valedictory bow, which 
Miss Ogilvie tried to make as courteous as possible to the 
supposed lover of her cousin. 

“ Dear me ! how tiresome these men are ! What trouble 
I have with them, to be sure!” exclaimed Miss Worsley, 
throwing herself languidly into an arm-chair, while a grati- 
fied simper rather contradicted her assertions. Katharine 
looked a good deal surprised. “Why, Bella, I thought 
you were delighted to see this gentleman ; that he was a 
particular friend of yours — in short, a — ” 

“ Beau, you mean,” interrupted Isabella, with a laugh, 
“or admirer, or sioeetheart , as the maid-servants say.” 

“And Shakspeare — who makes the word so pretty, as in- 
deed it is — sweet heart” said Katharine, who scarcely knew 
whether or not to echo her cousin’s laugh, and, in truth, 
could hardly tell what to make of her. At last she in- 
quired earnestly, 

“ My dear Bella, do you and this young man really love 
one another ?” Isabella laughed more heartily than ever. 

“Well, that is good! ‘Love one another!’ — it sounds 
just like a text out of the Bible. You little simplicity! 


THE OGILVIES. 


165 


nobody ever talks in that way nowadays except in novels. 
Where did you learn your pretty lesson, my dear, and who 
taught you ?” Again the proud cheek’s sudden crimson 
warned Miss Worsley that the childish days wherein she 
used to make sport of her young cousin were over. She 
changed her tactics immediately, seriously adding, “ Well, 
well, I know what you mean, Katharine ; the mere form of 
words does not much signify. Whether I like Fred Pen- 
ny thorne or not, ’tis quite clear he likes me — as indeed he 
managed to tell me about ten minutes ago.” 

“And you will marry him — that is, if you do not, and 
never did, love any one else ?” 

“ My dear girl, how unsophisticated you are ! What 
difference could that last fact make in my becoming Mrs. 
Pennythorne ? Why, I have had affairs of this sort, off and 
on, ever since I was sixteen. It is very hard ; but if men 
will fall in love, what can one do ? However, you will be 
finding out these things for yourself one day, if what I hear 
people say about you be true.” 

“What do people say about me?” And there was a 
trembling at the girl’s heart as the thought passed through 
it that — but no, it was impossible ! She smiled calmly. 
“Pray tell me this interesting rumor, Isabella.” 

“ Only that when Miss Katharine Ogilvie marries she 
will not need to change her surname, and that our excel- 
lent cousin Hugh bids fair to inherit title, estates, heiress, 
and all. So thinks the world.” 

Katharine drew herself up. “ I do not see that the 
world has any business to think about the matter; but 
whether it does or not can be of little consequence to me, 
or to Hugh either. We are too good friends to mind an 
idle report.” 

“ Yes, yes ; it is all quite proper for you to talk so now, 
my dear, but we shall see. I guessed how it would end 
long ago, and so, I dare say, did some older heads than 
either yours or mine. Of course, your father and mother 
both know what a good match it would be for you.” 

*A good match !” repeated Katharine, while her beauti- 


166 


THE OGILVIES. 


ful lip curled, and her whole mien expressed ineffable scorn. 
“ Is that all that people marry for ?” 

Isabella, at this moment, jumped up from her seat by the 
window. “Talk of the — I beg your pardon and that of 
Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, for there he is riding down the street. 
And, oh ! doesn’t he look up at the window, Miss Katha- 
rine? Well, he is a fine-looking fellow, so I congratulate 
you, my dear.” If the flashes of indignant womanly pride 
that shot from Katharine’s eyes had been lightning-gleams, 
they would have consumed Isabella to ashes. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Oh ! I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter’s heart. 

Tennyson. 

Well! nature makes some wise provisions! We might be envious of 
others’ happiness if in nine cases out of ten we did not despise it. — L. E. L. 

Katharine rode home with her father and Hugh, more 
silent and thoughtful than was her wont. Two or three 
times her horse started at some restless, almost angry mo- 
tions of its young rider ; and when Hugh came anxiously 
to her assistance, she rejected his aid a little sharply. 

“How wonderfully independent you are this morning, 
Katharine !” 

“ Of course I am, and always will be,” was the quick an- 
swer. 

Hugh looked surprised and somewhat hurt, and Katha- 
rine instantly reproached herself. “How foolish I am — 
how wrong !” she thought. “ It might have been all non- 
sense — the mere gossip of Isabella. I will not think any 
more about it.” So she called Hugh to her side with some 
trivial observation, in which the gentle tone made all the 
concession needed. But as she noticed how hastily he 
spurred his horse forward at her summons, and how his 
whole countenance beamed with delight, Katharine again 
became troubled. 

In these frequent rides the two young people were in 


THE OGILYIES. 


167 


the habit of lingering behind Sir Robert, to look at the 
country around and talk. But this time Katharine kept 
her horse close beside her father’s the whole way; and 
when they reached Summerwood, she leaped off without 
waiting for Hugh’s customary assistance. 

“ Still independent, Katharine,” said the young man, too 
little sensitive, or else feeling too sure of his prize to no- 
tice the change in his cousin’s manner. She laughed, but 
the laugh was forced ; and springing up the hall steps with 
an excuse about being late for dinner, she went at once to 
her own room, her young heart oppressed with a new care. 

The possibility of Hugh’s wishing to make her his wife 
had never crossed Katharine’s mind before. She had no 
girlish vanity ; and the one great love which absorbed ev- 
ery thought, aim, and desire of her heart, shut out from it 
entirely all lesser fancies, or even the suspicion of their ex- 
istence in others. Besides, all her life she had looked upon 
Hugh as a brother, and treated him as such. His quiet 
nature was satisfied with this frank and affectionate inter- 
course; and, believing that in their secluded life she had 
no chance of forming any other attachment, he waited un- 
til his uncle gave him leave to say “ Katharine, will you 
marry me ?” fully persuaded that she would at once answer, 
“ Thank you, Hugh, I will.” As he really loved her very 
dearly, he would then most probably tell her so ; and so 
they would settle down into placid matrimonial felicity, 
such as was in fashion at Summerwood. And was the pas- 
sionate dream of almost idolatrous love to subside into 
this? Was Katharine, with her intense yearning after all 
that is great and glorious — with a soul so high that it 
sought a yet loftier for its worship — thus to sink from her 
ideal of marriage? There, husband and wife stood hand- 
in-hand in their fair and beloved home — genius, worth, 
and world-wide goodness shedding dignity and happiness 
around them. Could she barter this glorious future for a 
life with one who had no higher interests than the kennel, 
the stable, and the chase ? 

Katharine almost maddened at the thought. But imme- 


168 


THE OGILVIES. 


diately she reproached herself for the intense scorn which 
she felt embittering her against Hugh — poor easy Hugh ! 
How could he help it if he were not endowed with brains ? 
Katharine began to ponder on the possibility of his loving 
her; and her memory, roving over past years, found many 
a little circumstance that confirmed this vague suspicion. 
She grew very sad. The love that filled her own heart 
taught her compassion toward Hugh. She thought of her 
parents, and of the motives which Isabella had imputed to 
them. The detested words, “ a good match,” rang in her 
ears, goading her proud nature to resistance. 

“ They shall never buy and sell me — me, to whom he 
gave his loving words, his parting kiss. Oh, Paul, Paul ! no 
man living save you shall ever have this hand. I will keep 
it for you unto my life’s end !” And again she kissed with 
wild passion her own delicate hand — the hand which had 
once been made forever sacred by the clasp of Paul Lyne- 
don’s. 

Then she went to the little desk where she kept all her 
treasures. There, with many a girlish memento — token- 
flowers, idly given but so fondly kept — lay the only letter 
she had ever received from him — the one he had written 
after his rejection by Eleanor. * At first, how rapturous 
had been the joy it brought to her ! And with succeeding 
weeks and months came a happiness calmer indeed, but 
not less deep. In all her longing regrets for him, in all her 
light home-troubles, how it comforted her to fly to her lit- 
tle treasure-house, lay her cheek upon the paper, and feel 
that its very touch changed all tears to smiles ! How 
blessed it was to read over and over again her name writ- 
ten in his own hand — linked, too, with tenderest words, 
“ My dear Katharine, my true Katharine !” 

And she was true — fatally true — to the love which she 
deemed she read in this letter. The thoughtless outburst 
of wounded feeling, idly penned and soon forgotten, became 
to her deceived heart a treasure which gave it its hope — 
its strength — its life. She never doubted him for one mo- 
ment — not even when his absence grew from months into 


THE OGILVIES. 


169 


years, and no tidings either of him or from him ever reached 
her loneliness. Some strange necessity detained him ; but 
that he would come back to claim the love which he had 
won, she felt as sure as that the sun was in the heavens. 
Once only the terrible, withering thought struck her that 
he was dead ! But no — for in death he would have remem- 
bered her. She did not conjure up that horror again — she 
could not have done so, and lived ! So she waited calmly, 
all her care being to make herself worthy of him, and of 
that blessed time when he should claim her. She strove 
to lift herself nearer to him in intellect, heart, and soul ; 
she cherished her beauty, and rejoiced as she saw herself 
grow fairer day by day ; she practiced every graceful ac- 
complishment that might make her more winning in his 
sight ; and when at last the world’s praises were lavished 
at the feet of Sir Robert Ogilvie’s heiress, Katharine gloried 
in her resistless charms, her talents, and her beauty, since 
they were all for him ! 

There was in her but one thing wanting — the deep, holy 
faith which sees in love itself but the reflection of that pure 
ideal after which all should strive, and which in the heart's 
wildest devotion never suffers the Human to shut out the 
Divine. 

Katharine took the letter and read it for the thousandth 
time. Its tender words seemed breathed in her ear by 
Paul’s own voice, giving her comfort and strength. Then 
she placed before her the likeness, which, no longer hung 
up in her chamber, was now hidden carefully from sight. 
She gazed upon it fondly — yearningly ; but she thought 
not of the young poet’s face — she only felt as though she 
were looking into Paul Lynedon’s eyes. 

“ They shall never tear me from you, my own, own love 
— my noble Paul !” she cried ; “ I will stand firm against 
father — mother — the whole world. I will die rather than 
wed any man living save you !” 

But she felt rather ashamed of these heroic resolutions 
against unjust parents, etc., etc., when she found no change 
in the behavior of any of the party. Her good-natured 


170 


THE OGILYIES. 


father, her kind mother, and her quiet, easy-tempered Hugh, 
seemed by no means characters fitted to enact a stern trag- 
edy of blighted love and innocence oppressed. In the course 
of a week Katharine’s suspicions died away, and she smiled 
at the easy credence she had given to an idle rumor. But, 
nevertheless, the thoughts which it awakened were not 
without their influence, but rooted deeper and deeper in 
her heart in its intense and engrossing love. 

One day Lady Ogilvie entered her daughter’s little study 
— it was still the old, beloved room — with an air of myste- 
rious importance, and a letter in her hand. 

“ My dear Katharine, I have some news for you. Here 
is a letter from your Aunt Worsley ; but read it yourself, 
it will save me the trouble of talking.” And Lady Ogilvie 
— now grown a little older, a little stouter, and a good deal 
less active — sat down in the arm-chair — the very arm-chair 
in which Sir James had died — and began to stroke a great 
black cat of which Katharine took affectionate care because 
in its kitten-days it had been a plaything of her grand- 
father’s second childhood. Once or twice Lady Ogilvie 
glanced toward her daughter’s face, and wondered that 
Katharine manifested scarcely any surprise, but returned 
the letter, merely observing, 

“•Well, mamma, I am sure you are very glad, and so am 
I.” 

“ Really, my dear, how quietly you take it ! A wedding 
in the family does not come every day. I feel quite excited 
about it myself.” 

“ But, mamma, it is not exactly news to me. I met Mr. 
Pennythorne the day I was at Aunt Worsley’s.” 

“ And you never said a word about it !” 

“It would not have been right, as Isabella begged me 
not.” 

“Young people should never keep any thing from their 
parents,” was the mild reproof of Lady Ogilvie. 

“ Indeed, dear mamma, to tell the truth, I have scarcely 
thought of the matter a second time, as I did not take much 
interest in the gentleman. But I am glad Isabella is to be 


THE OGILVIES. 


171 


married, since I think she wished it very much.” And the 
slight satirical tendency which lay dormant in Katharine 
peeped out in a rather comically repressed smile. 

“ It is very natural that young persons should wish to be 
settled,” answered the impassive Lady Ogilvie, “ especially 
when they are, like your cousin, the eldest of a large family. 
The only thing requisite is a suitable match.” Katharine 
started a little, and her fair brow contracted for a moment 
at the disagreeable reminiscences which her mother’s last 
words recalled. But Lady Ogilvie went on quite uncon- 
sciously : 

“ In Isabella’s case every thing seems satisfactory. With 
your father, Mrs. Worsley is, of course, more explicit than 
with me ; and her letter to him states that the gentleman 
has a good income and excellent prospects. The family 
are respectable, too. Indeed, from what Sir Robert tells 
me, I should consider Isabella most fortunate, as she has 
little or no fortune, and may not have a better offer.” 

During this speech, delivered rather prosily and oracu- 
larly, Katharine had listened in perfect silence. Once or 
twice she bit her beautiful under lip until its curves grew 
of a deeper rose, and tapped her little foot restlessly upon 
the cushion so as materially to disturb the peace of mind 
of the great black cat who usually claimed it. When Lady 
Ogilvie ceased, expecting a reply, the only one she gained 
was, “ Well, mamma ?” 

“ Well, my dear, you seem to take very little interest 
about the matter.” 

“Not a great deal, I confess.” 

“ What an odd girl you are, Katharine ! I imagined all 
young ladies of your age must be interested in love and 
matrimony.” 

“ I don’t think the two are united in this case, and there- 
fore I care less about it.” 

“ But, my dear child, you should care. You are coming 
to an age when it is necessary to have right ideas on these 
points. Most probably, some time or other, you yourself—” 

“ Mamma, you do not want to send Katharine away from 


172 


THE OGILYIES. 


you ?” said the girl, rising suddenly, and putting her arms 
round her mother’s neck, so that her face was hid from 
Lady Ogilvie’s observation. 

“ By no means love ; but — ” 

“ Then we will not talk about it.” 

“ Not if you do not like it, my darling,” said the mother, 
fondly ; and at the moment a sudden and natural impulse 
of maternal jealousy made her feel that it would he hard 
to give up her only child to any husband whomsoever. 
She drew Katharine to the stool at her feet. 

“ Sit down here, love, and let us go on talking about Isa- 
bella* You know T she wishes to have you for bridesmaid — 
shall you like it ?” 

“ Yes, certainly, if you are •willing.” 

“ Oh, to be sure ; and, moreover, as the marriage is to be 
so soon, before Mrs. Worsley leaves London, your papa in 
tends proposing that it shall take place at Summerwood. 
It will cause a good deal of trouble, but then Isabella is his 
only sister’s child, and has no father living. Sir Robert 
thinks this plan would be more creditable to the family 
than having her married from lodgings ; and I quite agree 
with him, especially as it will please your aunt so much.” 

“ What a good, kind, thoughtful mamma you are !” mur> 
mured Katharine, with a sudden twinge of conscience as 
she remembered all the conflicting feelings of the last ten 
minutes. 

“ And now, my dear, as there is no time to be lost, I have 
ordered the carriage, that we may go at once to your aunt’s, 
and arrange about the dresses and other matters. She will 
make a pretty bridesmaid, will my little Katharine ! I shall 
quite like to see her,” added the mother, affectionately 
passing her hand down the smooth braided hair. Katha- 
rine laughed as merrily as a child. 

“ And when she comes to be a bride herself,” continued 
Lady Ogilvie, in tones the formality of which had sunk to 
an almost perceptible tremulousness, “she will make a good 
choice, and marry so as to please her papa and me ?” 

‘ I will never marry without consulting your will and 
































*5 








“how beautiful you look in youb bbidal dbess, kathabine," OBIKD HUGH, AS UB 
MET HEB UPON THE STAIBOASE ON THE WEDDING MOBNING. 



THE OGILVIES. 


173 


my father’s,” said Katharine, softly, but firmly, “ and you 
must leave me equally free in mine.” 

“ Of course we shall, my child ! But there is time enough 
to think about that. Now let us go together and congrat- 
ulate Isabella.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Tis a morn for a bridal — the merry bride bell 
Rings clear through the greenwood that skirts the chapelle. 
****** 

The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done, 

They who knelt down together arise up as one : 

Fair riseth the bride — oh, a fair bride is she ! 

But for all (think the maidens), * * * 

No saint at her praying. — E. B. Browning. 

“ How beautiful you look in your bridal dress, Katha- 
rine !” cried Hugh, as he met her upon the staircase on the 
wedding morning. He could not forbear taking hold of 
both her hands, and gazing admiringly in her bright young 
face. “I declare you only want the orange-blossoms to 
look like a bride yourself 1 — and a great deal prettier than 
Miss Bella, too, as I always said you were.” 

“Thank you, Hugh,” returned his cousin, with a laugh 
and a low courtesy. “ Only it is as well that the bride does 
not hear you ; for you know,” she added, giving way to a 
light-hearted, girlish jest, “ you know that once upon a time 
you thought her very handsome, and people said that Isa- 
bella need not go out of the family in search of a husband.” 

“ Pooh ! nonsense ! I hope you never thought so. In- 
deed, Katharine, I should be very much vexed if you did,” 
said Hugh, earnestly. Katharine’s color rose, and she drew 
her hand away. 

“ Really, I never thought about the matter at all. I am 
too young to consider such things.” 

Hugh looked disappointed and confused. At last he 
stammered out hastily, “ I wish you would come into the 
garden with me, and let me gather your bouquet and Isa- 


174 


THE OGILYIES. 


bella’s from the greenhouse. And — and — I’ve two such 
pretty little puppies in the stable to show you,” he added, 
evidently ransacking his brain for various excellent ex- 
cuses. “ Do come, Katharine !” 

“Not now,” answered Katharine, striving to get away; 
for the apprehension which Isabella had first suggested had 
never been entirely eradicated, but sprang up again pain- 
fully at the least cause. And though the foolish vanity 
which construes every little attention into declared admi- 
ration was as far from Katharine’s nature as darkness from 
light, yet it sometimes struck her that Hugh was growing 
less of a cousin and more of a lover every day. 

“ You are not kind to me, Katharine,” said the young 
man, almost sulkily. “ I don’t care a bit for either the flow- 
ers or the puppies, or any thing else, except on your ac- 
count, and that you must know pretty well by this time.” 

“ I do not understand you, cousin Hugh.” 

“ There, now, don’t be angry with me,” said Hugh, hum- 
bled in a moment. “ Oh, Katharine, I’d give the best hunt- 
er in the stables — and that’s saying a great deal, consider- 
ing it’s Brown Bess — I’d give the mare herself, or any thing 
else in the world, if you only cared for me half as much as 
I do for you.” Katharine was touched. She had known 
him many years, and had never seen him so agitated before. 

“ Indeed, I do like you very much as my cousin — my 
kind, good-natured cousin Hugh !” 

“ And is that all ?” 

“Yes,” said Katharine, seriously and earnestly. “And 
now good-by, dear Hugh, for there is Isabella calling.” She 
broke away, and Hugh saw the glimmer of her white dress 
passing, not to the bride’s chamber, but to her own. 

“ She turned pale — she trembled,” he said to himself, “and 
I’m sure she called me ‘ dear Hugh !’ Girls often don’t 
mean half they say, so I’ll count her yes as nothing. Heigh- 
ho ! I wish it were my wedding-day instead of Bella’s. 
How tiresome it is of my uncle to tie my tongue in this 
way ! I’ll ask him again this very day when he means to 
let me marry Katharine.” So the young man descended 


THE OGILVIES. 


175 


the stairs, and went out at the hall door, tapping his boots 
with his riding-whip, and whistling his usual comment on 
the fact of his “ love” being “ but a lassie yet” in very dole- 
ful style. 

Katharine, who, pale and agitated, stood at her window 
trying to compose herself, both saw and heard him. Then 
she pressed her hand on her swelling heart, and the deep 
sadness which Hugh’s words had caused changed to pride. 

“ He thinks to have me against my will, does he ? And 
here have I been so foolish as to weep because I must give 
him pain ! I will not care for that. What signifies it 
whether he loves me or not? But my father will ask me 
the reason that I refuse Hugh, and I dare not tell — I could 
not. Oh Paul, why do you not come and take all this 
sorrow from me?” And her pride melted, her grief was 
charmed away at the whisper of that beloved name. 

The wedding took place, as outwardly gay and inward- 
ly gloomy as most weddings are. There were the parents 
of the “happy couple” all pride and satisfaction — Mr. 
Pennythorne sending forth his bons mots in a perfect show- 
er of scintillations, so that his conversation became quite a 
pyrotechnic display. Mrs. Pennythorne kept close to her 
husband, and was rather uncomfortable at seeing so many 
strange faces. Yet her maternal gaze continually wander- 
ed from those to the bridegroom’s, and a tear or two would 
rise silently to the soft brown eyes. Once, when they were 
setting out for the church, Lady Ogilvie noticed this. 

“ I dare say you feel sorry to part with your son,” she 
whispered, kindly : “ I understand he has always lived at 
home. But you have another child, Isabella says, who was 
prevented coming to-day.” 

“ Yes, thank you, ma’am — Lady Ogilvie, I mean,” stam- 
mered the timid Mrs. Pennythorne, with a glance toward 
her husband, who was at the other end of the room. 

“ I believe he is much younger than Mr. Frederick ?” pur- 
sued the considerate hostess. “ I am really sorry we did 
not see him to-day.” 

“ Leigh can not go out this winter-time — he is not very 


176 


THE OGILVIES. 


strong,” answered the guest. And then — a sort of mater- 
nal freemasonry being established between them — Mrs. 
Pennythorne went on more courageously. “ I was think- 
ing about Leigh just then ; I shall have only him to think 
about when his brother is married.” 

“ Until Leigh — is not that his name ? — grows up, and is 
married himself,” said the other matron, with a smile. 

“ Ah ! yes,” returned Mrs. Pennythorne, eagerly ; “ he 
will be a man soon — tall and strong ; they say these deli- 
cate boys always make the stoutest men.” 

“You will go to his wedding next, I prophesy.” 

“ Shall I? oh yes, of course I shall ; but not just yet, for 
I don’t think I could — no, it would break my heart to part 
with Leigh ! He must bring his wife home— ay, that shall 
be it,” added she, suddenly, as if to explain even to herself 
that the words, “ I could not part with Leigh,” related 
solely to his marrying. The poor mother ! 

Isabella was quite in her glory. She had attained the 
great aim of her life — the being married — it did not much 
signify to whom. So that she reached the honor of ma- 
tronhood, she was almost indifferent as to who conferred it ; 
she cared little what surname was on her cards if the Mrs. 
were the prefix. Perhaps once or twice, when Hugh Ogil- 
vie and Frederick Pennythorne stood talking together, she 
remembered the time when she had fancied herself very 
much in love with the former. She laughed at the notion 
now. If Hugh were the taller and handsomer, her Freder- 
ick had such lively London manners, and dressed so much 
better. Isabella w~as quite satisfied ; only she took care 
to show her cousin how T much he had lost by exhibiting 
great pride and fondness toward her bridegroom, and de- 
porting herself toward Hugh with a reserved and matron- 
ly dignity. 

Katharine alone — for the first time in her life present at 
a wedding — was grave and silent. She trembled as she 
walked up the aisle ; she listened to the solemn words of 
the service with a beating heart. “To have and to hold 
from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for 


THE OGILVIES. 


Ill 

poorer , in sickness and in health , to love , cherish , and? ofoy, 
antaY death us do part” And this vow of almost fearful 
import, comprehending so much, and in its wide compass 
involving life, soul, and worldly estate, either as a joyful 
offering or as a dread immolation — this awful vow was 
taken lightly by two young creatures, who carelessly rat' 
tied it over during the short pause of jests and compli- 
ments, amidst lace and satin flutterings, thinking more of 
the fall of a robe or the fold of a cravat than of the oath, 
or of each other ! 

Katharine divined not this, for her fancy idealized all. 
The marriage scene touched her pure young heart in its 
deepest chords. She saw not the smirking bridegroom — 
the affected bride ; her thoughts, traveling into the future, 
peopled with other forms the dim gray shadows of the old 
church where she had worshiped every Sunday from a 
child. She beheld at her side the face of her dreams ; she 
heard the deep, low voice uttering the troth-plight, “Y, 
Paul , take thee , Katharine /” and, bowing her face upon the 
altar-rails, she suffered her tears to flow freely. 

“Yes,” she murmured to herself, “I would not fear to 
kneel in the sight of Heaven and take that vow toward 
him — and I will take it here one day to him, and none but 
him !” 

Why was it that in this very moment the bright dream 
of the future was crossed by a strange shadow from the 
past ? Even while she thought thus, there flashed across 
the young bridesmaid’s memory that olden scene in the 
library. And, above the benediction of the priest, the 
amen of the congregation — even above the beloved voice 
which her fancy had conjured up — there rang in Katha- 
rine’s ears the words of her dying grandfather : “ Earth to 
earth , ashes to ashes , dust to dust /” 

The ceremony was over, and Isabella had the satisfac- 
tion of hearing herself greeted as Mrs. Frederick Penny- 
thome. A thought did once cross her mind that, accord- 
ing to the received etiquette, it was necessary for a bride 
to indulge in a slight faint, or a gush of hysterical tears, 


178 


THE 0GILVIES. 


on reaching the vestry. But the former would spoil her 
bonnet, and the latter her eyes; so she resolved to do 
neither, but resort to the outward calmness of suppressed 
emotion. 

“ How well she bears it, poor dear child !” observed Mrs. 
Worsley. This lady being one of those nobodies who, 
wherever they go, always contrive to make themselves in- 
visible — we have not hitherto drawn her into the light, 
nor, to tell the truth, have we any intention of doing so. 
After the space of ten minutes, Isabella quietly emerged 
from her fit of repressed feeling, and burst into full splen- 
dor as “ the beautiful and accomplished bride” — in which 
character she may whirl away with her chosen to the 
Lakes, or in any direction she pleases, for we care too little 
about the happy couple to chronicle their honey-moon. 

The Penny thornes were borne homeward in Sir Robert’s 
carriage ; a circumstance which made Mr. Pennythorne ex' 
ult in the good training which had caused his eldest son to 
marry into so high a family. 

“ My Frederick is an excellent boy ; he knows how to 
choose a wife, God bless him !” said the old gentleman, 
with somewhat of maudlin sentimentality, for which the 
excellent cellar at Summerwood was alone to blame. “ Gil- 
lie, my dear ! now you see how right I was, five years ago, 
in putting an end to that foolish affair with Mason’s daugh- 
ter. No, no ; a girl who worked as a daily governess was 
not a fit match for my son.” 

“ Poor Bessie ! Fred was not so wild then,” murmured 
Mrs. Pennythorne. “Well, I hope his new wife will make 
him comfortable.” 

“ Comfortable !” echoed the husband, her last word fall- 
ing on his dulled ear : “ of course she will. I said to him 
soon after Mrs. Lancaster recommended the Worsleys to 
put their Chancery suit into his hands , 4 Fred, my lad, that’s 
the very wife for you. Good family — style — fashion — and 
money coming.’ Fred took my advice, and you see the 
result. Mrs. P., I only hope that stupid Leigh will turn 
out as well on my hands.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


179 


Mrs. Pennythorne sighed: “I wonder how Leigh has 
been all day ! I hardly liked leaving him ; but young 
Wychnor promised to stay with him until we came home 
from the OgilviesV’ 

“ Don’t mention that fellow in the same breath with the 
Ogilvies,” sharply said the husband. 

“ Indeed, Pierce, I will not, if you don’t like it,” replied 
Mrs. Pennythorne, humbly ; “ but the young man has been 
so attentive to poor Leigh, and has really seemed quite in- 
terested in this marriage.” 

“Mrs. Pennythorne, I am sleepy; will you be so obli- 
ging as to hold your tongue ?” said the old gentleman, with 
a slow and somnolent emphasis ; and, immediately as this 
sentence ended, his doze began. 

The mother leaned her head back on the carriage cush- 
ions, having previously taken the feminine precaution of 
laying the wedding bonnet on her lap. She did not go to 
sleep ; but her thoughts wandered dreamily, first after her 
eldest-born, and then, flying back some thirty years, they 
traveled over her own wedding-trip. Finally they settled 
in the little back parlor in Blank Square, and by the sofa 
whereon Leigh was accustomed to rest, hour after hour, 
with Philip Wychnor by his side. 

“ Poor boy ! well, I can do better without Fred than 
without him. He will get well in the summer, and grow 
up a man, but he will not think of marrying for many 
years. No, no; we must keep Leigh with us — we will 
keep him always.” 

Oh ! if with this wild “1 xcill ” of our despairing human 
love we could stand between the Destroyer and the Doomed ! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

We think of Genius, how glorious it is to let the spirit go forth, win- 
ning a throne in men’s hearts ; sending our thoughts, like ships of Tyre, 
laden with rich merchandise, over the ocean of human opinion, and bring- 
ing back a still richer cargo of praise and good-will. — L. E. L. 

There could hardly be a greater contrast than that be* 


180 


THE OGILVIES. 


tween the gay bridal-party at Summerwood and the little 
dark parlor in Blank Square where Philip Wychnor sat 
with his young friend. They had indeed grown to be 
friends, the man and the boy — for one counts time more 
by the heart than by the head. According to that reckon- 
ing, poor Leigh was far older than his years ; while Philip, 
in the freshness and simplicity of his character, had a boy’s 
heart still, and would probably keep it forever. 

Nevertheless, he did not look so much of a boy as in 
those days when Eleanor first introduced him to the read- 
er’s notice by this appellation, nor, indeed, as when we last 
saw him just emerging from his weary, wasting sickness. 
As he sat reading aloud to Leigh, the lamplight showed 
how the delicate outlines of his face had sharpened into 
the features of manhood; the brow had grown broader 
and fuller, the lips firmer, and there were a new strength 
and a new character about the whole head. 

Philip had been tossed about on the world’s stormy cur- 
rents until at last he had learned to breast them. His pow- 
ers of mind, the thews and sinews of the inner man, had 
matured accordingly; and the more he used them the 
stronger they grew. The dreamer had become the worker. 

We may say with Malvolio that “some are born to great- 
ness, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
thrust upon them.” Philip Wychnor was of the latter 
class. His intellect seemed to work itself out by the force 
of necessity, and not by inspiration. He was perfectly 
sincere when he told Mr. Pennythorne that he had no ge- 
nius ; but the linnet reared in a hedge-sparrow’s nest nev- 
er knows that it can sing until it tries. 

So it happened that the same individual who had once 
declined attempting authorship on the ground of his entire 
unworthiness, was now fairly embarked in literature, with 
a moderate chance of success. All this had come gradu- 
ally. In his deep straits of poverty, Philip had tried to 
while away the hours that hung so heavily, and perhaps to 
gain a little money, by turning to account his knowledge 
of foreign languages. He mounted the ladder of fame by 


THE OGILVIES. 


181 


its lowest step, becoming a translator of small articles for 
newspapers and magazines — a sort of literary hodman, car- 
rying the mortar with which more skillful workmen might 
build. But, while searching into and reproducing other 
people’s thoughts, he unconsciously began to think for him- 
self. It was in a very small way at first, for his genius 
was not yet fledged, and its feathers took a long time in 
growing. He thought, and with the thought came almost 
unconsciously the power of expression. He wrote at first 
not by impulse or inspiration, but merely for daily bread. 
Yet though in his humility he never hoped to rise higher 
than a common laborer in. the highways of literature, he al- 
ways strove to do his small task-work well and worthily, 
and suffered neither carelessness nor hope of gain to allure 
his pen into what was false or vicious. All he wrote, he 
wrote earnestly ; gradually more and more so, as the high 
cause in which he had engaged unfolded itself to his per- 
ception. But he made no outward display ; never put forth 
his name from its anonymous shelter; and told no person 
of his pursuits except Leigh — and one more, who had the 
dear right of a betrothed to know all concerning him. He 
had never seen her again, but they had kept up a regular 
correspondence; and still the joy, the strength, the very 
pulse of the young man’s heart was the remembrance of 
Eleanor Ogilvie. 

We have taken this passing glance at the outward and 
inward changes in Philip Wychnor while he sat reading 
his last story, sketch, or essay. This he did more for the 
sake of amusing Leigh than for an author’s vanity, since, 
as before explained, Philip’s work was still very mechanical 
— the raw material woven with care and difficulty into a 
coarse web that gave him little pleasure and in which he 
took no pride. Yet, as he went on, it was some satisfac- 
tion to see the evident interest that brightened Leigh’s 
pale face, over which illness seemed to have cast a strange, 
even an intellectual beauty. Every now and then the boy 
clapped his poor thin, wasted hands, applauding with child- 
like eagerness. When Philip paused, he discussed the ar- 


182 


THE OGILVIES. 


tide in all its bearings with an acuteness and judgment 
that much enhanced the value of his laudations, and brought 
a smile to the young author’s cheek. 

“ Why, Leigh, you are quite a critic.” 

“ If I am, I know who made me so,” answered the boy, 
affectionately. “ I know who took the dullness out of my 
head, and put there — what is still little enough — all the 
sense it has.” 

“It has a great deal. I am bound to say so, my boy, 
since it is exercised for my own benefit ; though, of course, 
I ought not to believe a word of your praise,” said Philip, 
laughing. 

“ Don’t say so,” Leigh replied, earnestly. “ Indeed, you 
will be a celebrated author some of these days — I know 
you will. And when you are become a great man, remem- 
ber this prophecy of mine.” 

The serious tone and look at once banished the light 
manner which Philip had assumed, partly to divert the sick 
boy. “ I hardly think so — I wish I could !” he said, almost 
sadly. “ No ; it takes far more talent than I have to make 
a just and deserved fame. I don’t look for that at all.” 

Leigh answered with an ingenious evasion. “Do you 
remember when I was first taken ill — so ill as to be obliged 
to give up study ; and you brought one day some of your 
German books, and read to me 4 Undine’ and ‘ Sin tram ?’ 
Ah ! what a delicious time that was, after all the dry, 
musty Cicero and Xenophon !” And Leigh rubbed his fee- 
ble hands together with intense pleasure at the recollec- 
tion. 

Philip watched him affectionately. “My dear boy, how 
glad I am that I thought of the books !” 

“ So am I, because otherwise you might never have done 
what you then did through kindness to me — I mean that 
translation from Riickert, which I longed to have, so that 
I might read it over and over again. How good you were 
to me, dear Mr. Wychnor !” 

“ But my goodness was requited to myself,” said Philip, 
laughing ; “ for you remember the three golden guineas I 


THE OGILVIES. 


183 


had from the 1 Magazine,’ to which you persuaded me 

to send the tale ?” 

“That’s just what I mean. Now, if in one little year 
you have gone on from making a translation just for good- 
nature, to writing beautiful stories such as this — for it is 
most beautiful !” cried Leigh, energetically — “ why should 
you not rise to be a well-known author, like my — no, I don’t 
mean that,” and the boy’s face grew troubled — “ but like 
one of those great writers who do the world so much good ; 
who can make the best and wisest of people better and 
wiser still, and yet can bring comfort to a poor sick boy 
like me? Would not this be something great to try for?” 
And Leigh’s tones warmed into eloquence, and his large 
soft eyes were positively floating in their own light. 

Before Philip could answer, they were interrupted by the 
arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Pennythorne. The mother’s quick 
footstep was scarcely heard before she entered. It had 
often touched Philip of late to see what a new and intense 
expression came into the once unmeaning face and voice 
of Mrs. Pennythorne whenever she looked at or spoke to 
her son Leigh. This day the young man noticed it more 
than ever. Even the presence of her redoubtable lord, 
which usually restrained every display of feeling, failed 
to prevent her from leaning over her boy and kissing him 
fervently. 

“ How has my dear Leigh been all day ?” she asked. 

“ Oh, so well, so content, mother !” said Leigh, cheerfully. 
“Ask Mr.Wychnor there.” 

“ Mr.Wychnor is very kind.” And a look of deep grat- 
itude said more than the words. 

Every thing went off well? Fred is really married, 
then ?” inquired Leigh. 

“Yes, my dear. To-morrow you shall hear about it, and 
about Summerwood ; it is such a pretty place !” 

“ Is it ?” said the boy, languidly. “ I think I heard Miss 
Worsley say so the day she called, but I did not take much 
interest in what she said ; she tired me. You can’t think, 
Mr.Wychnor, how fast she talks !” 


184 


THE OGILVIES. 


“I know she does — that is, I think you said so,” answered 
Philip, correcting himself, and rising to depart. 

“ Don’t go yet ; stay and hear a little about the wedding. 
We were talking so much of it this morning, you know.” 
Philip sat down again, not unwillingly. He had a vague 
pleasure in hearing the sound of the familiar names, assured 
that no one knew how familiar they were to him. 

“Now go on, mother; tell us about the Ogilvies.” 

“ I did not see much of Sir Robert — your father talked 
to him ; and, besides, he was so stately. But Lady Ogilvie 
was very kind. And there was Mr. Hugh, a fine, handsome 
young man — so polite to Fred ! — and that sweet, beautiful 
creature, Miss Ogilvie.” 

Here Philip dropped his gloves, and, stooping hastily, 
made several unavailing attempts to recover them. 

.“I don’t think I ever saw a prettier bridesmaid than 
Miss Ogilvie — Katharine I believe they called her. Shall 
I hold the light for you, Mr. Wychnor?” said simple Mrs. 
Pennythorne, compassionating the glove-hunter. 

Philip hurriedly apologized for the interruption. “ But 
pray go on,” he said ; “ we poor bachelors like to hear of 
these merry doings. Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne seems 
rich in handsome relatives : how many more attended her 
to the altar ?” 

“There were none but Miss Ogilvie; she is an only child. 
Her father and mother seem so proud of her ! and well they 
may. Perhaps, Leigh, she may come and stay with your 
new sister, and then you will see her.” 

“ Shall I ? I don’t much care,” said the sick boy, wearily. 
“ I don’t mind seeing any one except you, mother, and Mr, 
Wychnor. Are you really going, then ?” and Leigh, taking 
his friend’s hand, so as to draw him close, whispered in his 
ear, “Now remember what we were talking about before 
they came in ; it may do you good some time or other to 
think over what I said — though I am so young — perhaps 
stupid enough too, as they always told me ;” and a smile 
of patient humility flitted over the boy’s pale lips. “But 
never mind — there is the old fable of the Mouse and the 
Lion, you know ; we’ll act it over again, maybe.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


185 


“ God bless you, my dear boy !” murmured Philip, as he 
took his leave. He had felt passing disappointment at not 
hearing that Eleanor was at Summerwood, as he had framed 
that reason to account to himself for the fact of an unusual 
silence in her correspondence. This slight vexation return- 
ed again as he walked homeward, but it soon passed away. 
A man’s strong heart is seldom entirely engrossed by a 
love-dream, be it ever so close and dear. And Eleanor her- 
self would have been the last to blame her betrothed if 
these tender thoughts of her became absorbed in the life- 
purpose which was awakening in him, since therewith also 
she was connected as its origin and aim. 

Even while he smiled at Leigh Pennythorne’s quaint fa- 
ble, Wychnor acknowledged its truth. As he walked 
along, the boy’s words came again and again into his mind; 
and he began to think yet more earnestly on his litelary 
pursuits — what he had done, and what he purposed to do. 

“ How can a man touch pitch and not be defiled ?” says 
the wise man of Israel ; and Philip was not likely to have 
been thrown so much in the circle of Mr. Pennythorne’s 
influence without being slightly affected thereby. His 
young heart, filled to enthusiasm with love of literature, 
and also with a complete hero-worship of literary men, had 
been checked in its most sensitive point. He found how 
different was the ideal of the book-reader to the reality of 
the book-writer. He had painted an imaginary picture of 
a great author, inspired by a noble purpose, and working 
always with his whole heart for the truth — or at least for 
what he esteemed the truth — and for nothing else. Now 
this image crumbled into dust, and from its ashes arose the 
semblance of a modern “ litterateur ,” writing, not from his 
earnest heart, but from his clever head ; doling out at so 
much per column the fruit of his brains, no matter whether 
it be tinseled inanity or vile poison, so that it will sell ; or 
else ready to cringe, steal, lie, by word or by pen, becoming 
“ all things to all men,” if by such means he can get his 
base metal puffed off as gold. 

Philip Wychnor saw this detestable likeness in Mr. Pen- 
13 


186 


THE OGILVIES. 


nythorne, and it was variously reduplicated in all the pet 
ty dabblers in literature who surrounded him. A triton 
of similar magnitude is always accompanied by a host of 
minnows, especially if, as in this case, the larger fish rather 
glories in his train. And so our young visionary began to 
look on books and book-creators with diminished reverence, 
and in the fair picture of literary fame he saw only the un* 
sightly frame-work by which its theatrical and deceitful 
splendor was supported. He had been behind the scenes. 

Poor Philip Wychnor ! He was too young, too inexpe- 
rienced, to know that of all imitations there must be some- 
where or other a vital reality — that if the true were not, 
its similation would never have existed. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

What is a man, 

If his chief good, and market of his time, 

Be but to sleep and feed ? A beast, no more. 

Sure He that made us with such large discourse, 

Looking before and after, gave us not 
That capability and godlike reason 
To rust in us, unused. 

I do not know 

Why yet I live to say, This thing’s to do, 

Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and mean 
To do it. — S haksfeare. 

Good Dame Fortune makes it her pleasure to walk about 
the world in varied guise, suddenly showing her bonnie face 
sometimes in the oddest way and under the oddest sem- 
blance imaginable, so that it is a considerable length of 
time before we begin to find out that it is really her own 
fair self. She came to Philip Wychnor that very night as 
he was returning home, meeting him under the shroud of 
a London fog. And such a fog ! one that people who are 
fond of elegant symbolization would emphatically describe 
as being “ like breathing ropes,” or at least one that might 
be considered as a suspiration of small twine. It was a 
literal version of the phrase “jaundiced atmosphere,” for 


THE OGILVIES. 


187 


the whole circumambient seemed to have grown suddenly 
yellow and bilious. Therein all London groped blindfold ; 
New Road omnibuses finding themselves plunged against 
the inner railings of Woburn Place, and cabmen, while 
they threaded the mazes of Trafalgar Square, inquiring in 
tones of distracted uncertainty how far they were from 
Piccadilly. It was a time when each man’s great strug- 
gle appeared to be the discovery of his own whereabouts ; 
wnen the whole world seemed bent on an involuntary fra- 
ternization — every body running into his neighbor’s arms. 

This was exactly what Philip Wychnor did somewhere 
about Russell Square. Dame Fortune, hid in the fog, 
laughed as she knocked right into his involuntary em- 
brace a chance passer-by. 

A gentle voice, obviously that of an elderly man, ex> 
pressed the usual apology, and added thereto the not un 
common inquiry, “ Pray, sir, can you tell me whereabouts 
I am ?” 

“ I fancy, near the British Museum,” answered Philip. 

“That’s where I’ve been this hour and a half,” said the 
voice, with a comic hopelessness that made Philip smile. 
“I live only a few streets off, and I can’t find my way 
home.” 

“My case is not unlike yours,” laughed Philip, “and 
most probably there are plenty more in the same predica- 
ment, especially strangers. Suppose, my good sir, we were 
to unite our fortunes — or misfortunes — and try to make 

out the way together? Mine is street. Which is 

yours ?” 

“ The same ; and I’m very much obliged to you, young 
gentleman, for so I perceive you are, by your voice. May 
I take your arm? for I am old, and very tired.” 

“ Gladly,” replied Philip. There was something in the 
simplicity of the manner that pleased him. He liked the 
voice, and almost fancied he had heard it before. Perhaps 
the old man thought the same, since when they came to 
the nearest lamp the two wayfarers each stopped to look 
in the other’s face. The recognition was mutual. 


188 


THE OGILYIES. 


“ Bless my life !” cried the elder one, “ you are the very 
young man I found a year ago, near this spot, in a faint !” 

“And most good-naturedly took home, for which kind- 
ness I have often longed to thank you. Let me do so 
now,” answered Philip, grasping his companion’s hand 
with a hearty shake. 

“Really, my friend, your fingers are as young and 
strong as your arms,” said the queer little old man of the 
omnibus. “ Mine are rather too frozen and weak to bear 
squeezing this raw day; and, besides, they are not used to 
such a cordial gripe,” he added, blowing the ends of the 
said fingers, which peeped up bluely from a pair of old 
cotton gloves — yet he looked much gratified all the while. 

“You don’t know how pleased I am to meet you !” reit- 
erated Philip. “ I often kept a lookout in the streets and 
squares for every — ” 

“Every odd little old fellow, you mean? Well, for my 
part, I never passed down your street without looking out 
for you. Once I saw your head at the window, so I knew 
you were better.” 

“Why did you never come in? But you shall now.” 
And Philip, trusting to gratitude and physiognomy, and 
following an impulse which showed how unsuspicious and 
provincial he was, took home his queer-looking acquaint- 
ance, inviting him to spend the evening without even ask- 
ing him his name. The old gentleman, after a few shy ex- 
cuses and some hesitation, settled himself in the easy-chair, 
and began to make himself quite comfortable and at home. 

“ Will you have some tea and eggs — as I always have 
when it is thus late?” said Wychnor, coloring slightly; for 
he had peered into his bachelor larder only to discover its 
emptiness, and hospitality is a virtue that poverty some- 
times causes to grow rusty. “ But perhaps you have not 
dined ?” 

“ I never practice what the world in general considers 
dining — it’s inconvenient,” said the guest. “Meat is very 
dear, and not wholesome. I gave it up a long time ago, 
and am much the better too. Pythagoras, my good sir— 


THE OGILVIES. 


189 


depend upon it, Pythagoras was the wisest fellow that ever 
lived. I keep to his doctrines.” 

Crossing his legs, he gazed complacently at the kettle 
which Philip put on the fire, thereby eclipsing its cheerful 
blaze. These housekeeping avocations, which the young 
man afterward continued even to egg-boiling and toast- 
making, may a little dim the romance that surrounds, or 
at least ought to surround him as a novel-hero ; but as we 
began by avowing Philip Wychnor’s utter dissimilarity 
from the received ideal of that fascinating personage, we 
shall not apologize for this little circumstance. And that 
the inner life of man goes on just the same, ennobling and 
idealizing the commonest outward manifestation, is proved 
by the fact that while the young host continued his lowly 
domestic occupations, and the guest sat drying the wet 
soles of his clumsy boots, they talked — oh ye gods, how 
they did talk ! 

The stranger was an original, and that Philip soon found. 
In five minutes they had plunged into the depths of a con- 
versation which sprang from the remark concerning Py- 
thagoras. The little old man quoted with the most per- 
fect simplicity recondite Greek authors and Middle Age 
philosophers, referring to them without the slightest ped- 
antry or affectation of learning. Such things seemed to 
him part of his daily life, familiar as the air he breathed. 
He wandered from Pythagoras to Plato, then to the Rosi- 
crucian mystics, and onward to Jacob Boehmen, finally 
landing in these modern times with Hegel, Kant, and Cole- 
ridge. He seemed to know every thing, and to be able 
to talk about every thing, except ordinary topics. While 
lingering among these latter he was shy, uneasy, and could 
not find a word to say ; but the moment he found an op- 
portunity of plunging into his native element, he rushed 
to it like a duck to the water, and was himself again. 

Immediately his whole outer man changed. Throwing 
himself back in the chair — one foot crossed on the knee of 
the other leg, the tips of his long thin fingers oracularly 
joined together— this curious individual was set n-going 


190 


THE OGILYIES. 


like a well-wound-up watch. His bright eye flashed, hia 
whole countenance grew inspired, and his tongue, now 
fully let loose, was ready to pour forth eloquent discourse. 
However, with him conversation resembled rather a solo 
than a duet — it was less talking than lecturing. Now and 
then he waited a second, if his companion seemed eager to 
make an observation, and then he went off again in his ha- 
rangue. At last, fairly tired out, he began sipping his tea 
with infinite satisfaction, meanwhile employing himself in 
a close inspection of his host’s countenance and person. 
He broke silence at last by the abrupt question, “ My 
young friend, what are you ?” 

Philip started at this unceremonious interrogatory, but 
there was something so kindly in the clear eyes that he 
only smiled and answered, “ My name is — ” 

“ I don’t mean that,” interrupted the old man — “ I don’t 
want to know your name ; every body has one, I suppose — 
I asked what you are ?” 

“ My profession ?” 

“No, not your profession, but you — your real self, your 
soul — your ego. Have you found out that ?” Philip began 
to think his visitor was rather more than eccentric — slight- 
ly touched in the head ; but the old gentleman went on : 

“ I have a theory of my own about physiognomy, or, 
more properly speaking, the influence of spirit over mat- 
ter. I never knew a great man yet — and I have known a 
good many (ay, though I am an odd-looking fellow to look 
at) — I never yet knew a man of intellect whose mind was 
not shown in his face ; not to the common observer per- 
haps, but to those who look deeper. Moreover, I believe 
firmly in sympathies and antipathies. Why should not 
the soul have its instincts, and its atmosphere of attrac- 
tion and repulsion, as well as the body? We respect the 
outer machine sadly too much, and don’t notice half enough 
the workings of the free agent within.” 

“Well, my dear sir?” said Philip, interrogatively, as his 
companion paused to take breath. 

“Well, my friend, I dare say you think all this means 


THE OGILVIES. 


191 


nothing. But it does — a great deal. It explains why I 
liked you — why I followed you out of the omnibus — and 
also why I am here. You have a good face ; I read your 
soul in it like a book ; and it is a great, deep, true soul — 
thirsting after the pure, the lofty, and the divine. It may 
not be developed yet — I hardly think it can be ; but it is 
there. Now I want to ask if you feel this in yourself — if 
you know what is this inner life of ‘ the spirit ?’ ” 

Philip caught somewhat of the meaning which these 
singular words unfolded, and the earnestness of his guest 
was communicated to himself. “I know thus far,” he said, 
“that I have been a student and a dreamer all my life; that 
I have tried to fill my head with knowledge and my heart 
with poetry ; that I have gone through the world feeling 
that there were in me many things which no person could 
understand — except one.” 

“ Who was he ?” 

Philip changed color; but, even had he wished other- 
wise, he could not but speak the truth beneath that pierc- 
ing gaze. “ It was no man — a woman.” 

“ Ah !” said the old man, catching the meaning. “ Well, 
such things are ! Go on.” 

“ I have had some trouble in my life — latterly very much. 
It has made me think more deeply; and I am now trying 
to work out those thoughts with my pen.” 

“I imagine so. You are an author?” 

“ I can not call myself by that name,” said Philip, hum- 
bly ; “I write, as many others do, for bread. But still I 
begin to see how great an author’s calling might be made, 
and I long, however vainly, to realize that ideal.” 

“ That’s right, my boy !” cried the old man, energetical- 
ly ;“ I knew you had the true soul in you. But how far 
had it manifested itself— in short, what have you written ?” 
Philip enumerated his various productions. 

“ I have seen some of them ; very fair for a beginning, 
but too much written to order — world-fashion — all outside. 
My young friend, you wiil begin to think soon. Why don’t 
you put your name to what you do ?” 


192 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Because — though the confession is humiliating — I have 
written, as I before said, simply from necessity. It would 
have given me no pleasure to see my poor name in print. 
I worked for money, not reputation. I am no genius !” 

The guest lifted himself up in his chair, and fixed his 
keen eyes on Philip. “And do you think every man of 
genius does write for reputation ? Do you imagine that 
ice ” — his unconscious egotism was too earnest even to pro- 
voke a smile — “ that we care whether Tom Smith or Dick 
Jones praises or abuses us — that is, our work, which is our 
true self, much more than the curious frame-work on two 
legs that walks about in broadcloth? No; a real author 
sends forth his brain-children as God did Adam, created 
out of the fullness that is in his soul, and meant for a great 
purpose. If these, his offspring, walk upright through the 
world, and fulfill their being’s end — angels may shout and 
devils grin — he cares as little for one as for the other.” 
Philip — quiet Philip — who had lived all his life in the pre- 
cise decorums of L , or in the rigid proprieties of the 

most orthodox college at Oxford, was a little startled at 
this style of language. 

“I dare say you think me profane,” continued his strange 
guest, “but it is not so: I am one of those who have had 
power given them to lift up a little of the veil from the In- 
finite and the Divine, and, feeling this power in their souls, 
are emboldened to speak fearlessly of things at which com- 
mon minds stupidly marvel. I say with that great new 
poet, Philip Bailey — 

That to the full of worship 
All things are worshipful. 

Call things by their right names ! Hell, call thou hel> 
Archangel, call archangel ; and God — God ! 

but I do so with the humble and reverent awe of one who, 
knowing more of these mysteries, is the more penetrated 
with adoration.” And the old man’s voice sank meekly as 
a little child’s, while his uplifted eyes spoke the deepest 
devotion. 

Philip was moved. There was something in the intense 


THE OGILVIES. 


193 


earnestness of this man which touched a new chord in his 
heart. He saw, amidst all the quaint vagaries of the en- 
thusiast, a something which in the world he had himself so 
vainly longed to find — a striving after knowledge for its 
own sake, a power to separate the real from the unreal, the 
true from the false. And the young man’s whole soul 
sprang to meet and welcome what he had begun to deem 
almost an idle chimera. 

“ My dear sir,” cried he, seizing the hand of his guest, 
“ will you let me ask you the same question you asked me 
— What are you ?” 

“ Outwardly, just what you see — a little old man — poor 
enough and shabby enough ; because, while other folk 
spend their lives in trying how to feed and clothe their 
bodies, he has spent his in doing the same for his soul. 
And a very creditable soul it is,” said the old gentleman, 
laughing, and tapping with his forefinger a brow full, high, 
and broad enough to delight any follower of Spurzheim 
with its magnificent developments. “ There’s a good deal 
of floating capital here, in the way of learning, only it does 
not bring in much interest.” 

Philip smiled. “ So your life has been devoted to study ! 
Of what kind ?” 

“Oh, I have contrived during sixty years to put into 
this pericranium some dozen languages, a good deal of 
mathematics and metaphysics, a little of nearly all the 
onomies and ologies , with fragments of literature and poet- 
ry to lighten the load and make it fit tight together. As 
for my profession, it is none at all, if you ask the world’s 
opinion ; but I think I may rank, however humbly, with 
some honest fellows of old, who in their lifetime were re- 
garded about as little as I am. In fact, my good friend, I 
may call myself a philosopher.” 

“And a poet,” cried Philip ; “I read it in your eyes.” 

The old man shook his head. “ God makes many poets, 
but he only gives utterance to a few. He never gave it to 
me. Nevertheless, I can distinguish this power in others; 
I can feel it sometimes rising and bubbling up in my own 

12 


194 


THE 0GLLVIES. 


eoul ; but there is a seal on ray lips, and I shall remain a 
dumb poet to my life’s end.” So saying, Philip’s guest 
rose, and began to button up his well-worn coat as a pre- 
parative to his departure. 

“We shall meet again soon?” said the young man, cor- 
dially. 

“ Oh yes ; you will always find me at the British Muse 
um, in the reading-room. I go there every day. ’Tis a 
nice warm place for study, especially when one finds that 
dinner and fire are too great luxuries on the same day. I 
have done so now and then,” said the old gentleman, with 
a patient smile, that made Philip’s warm shake of the hand 
grow into an almost affectionate clasp. They seemed to 
feel quite like old friends, and yet to this minute they did 
not know each other’s name. The elder one was absolute- 
ly going away without this necessary piece of information, 
when Philip, disclosing his own patronymic, requested to 
know his visitor’s. 

“ My name, eh ? Drysdale — David Drysdale. A good 
one, isn’t it ? My great grandfather made it tolerably well 
known among the Scottish Covenanters. The Christian 
iiu,me is not bad either. You know the Hebrew meaning, 
k beloved.’ Not that it has been exactly suitable for me — 
I don’t suppose any one in the world ever loved me much” 
— and a slight bitterness was perceptible in the quaint hu- 
mor of the tone. But it changed into softness as he add- 
ed, “except — except my poor old mother. Young man,” 
he continued, “ when you have lived as long as I have, you 
may perhaps find out that there are in this world two sorts 
of love only — which last until death, and after — your moth- 
er’s love, and your God’s.” He took off his hat reverent- 
ly, though they stood at the street door, exposed to the 
bleak wind : then put it on again, and disappeared. 


THE OGILVIES. 


195 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Oh, prophesy no more, but be the poet ! 

This longing was but granted unto thee 
That, when all beauty thou couldst feel, and know it, 

That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. — J. R. Lowell, 

I am a youthful traveler in the way, 

And this slight boon would consecrate to thee 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 

H. Kirke White. 

Philip was in the habit of laying up in his memory a 
kindly store of his little daily adventures, in order to amuse 
Leigh Pennythorne. Also, as the boy grew more and more 
of a companion and friend, he shared many of Philip’s most 
inward thoughts — always excepting the one which lay in 
the core of the young man’s heart. Therefore Leigh was 
soon informed of the singular acquaintance that Wychnor 
made in the last chapter. 

“ David Drysdale !” said Leigh. “Why, my father, nay, 
every body knows old Drysdale. I have seen him here 
sometimes, and watched those curious eyes of his — they 
seem to look one through.” 

“ Does he come often ?” 

“ No, my father can’t endure him — says he is such a bear. 
Then Drysdale has a great deal of dry humor ; and when 
two flints meet there is a blaze directly, you know.” 

“ But still there is no quarrel between him and Mr. Pen- 
nythorne ?” 

“ Oh no ; my father would never quarrel with such a 
man as Drysdale. He has wonderful influence, in a quiet 
way, among literary people. He knows every body, and 
every body knows him. I have heard that his learning is 
prodigious !” 

“ I found that out very soon,” said Philip, smiling. 

“Ay, and so did I,” Leigh continued. “In those old 
times of work — work — work — you know” — and the boy 


196 


THE OGILVIES. 


seemed absolutely to shudder at the remembrance — “ my 
father once sent me down stairs to show off my Greek to 
Drysdale. How the old fellow frightened me with those 
eyes of his ! I forgot every word. And then he told my 
father that I was not quite such a fool as I looked, but that 
I should soon be if I went on with the classics. Perhaps 
he was right,” said Leigh, sighing. “ However, my father 
never asked him here again, but made me work harder than 
ever.” Philip saw that the boy’s thoughts were wander- 
ing in a direction not good for him, so he took no notice, but 
pursued the questions about the old philosopher. “ How 
happens it, though, that Drysdale is so poor ?” 

“ I have heard my father say it is because of his genius 
and his learning, which are never of any use to their pos- 
sessors. But I do not exactly think that ; do you ?” 

“No; however, your father has many peculiar opinions 
of his own,” answered Philip, always careful in their vari- 
ous conversations to remember that Leigh was Mr. Penny- 
thorne’s son. “ It seems to me that this man’s tastes, while 
rendering him somewhat unfit for the ordinary world, also 
make him independent of it. If he had just enough to keep 
him alive, and plenty of opportunity for study, I fancy Drys- 
dale would be quite happy.” 

“Very likely; but it is an odd taste,” said Leigh. “I 
can understand genius — not learning.” 

“ Our queer old friend has both, I think.” And Philip 
repeated the substance of the last evening’s conversation, 
which had clung closely to his memory. Leigh listened 
eagerly, partly because he comprehended some little of it, 
but more because he saw how deeply his friend was inter- 
ested. 

“Mr. Wychnor,” he said at last, “if you understand and 
feel all this, you must have a strong and great intellect 
yourself. Otherwise you would not care for it in the least.” 

The simple argument struck home. It brought to the 
young author’s mind the first consciousness of its own pow- 
ers, without which no genius can come to perfection. It 
was not the whisper of vanity — the answering thrill to idle 


THE OGILVIES. 


197 


praise — but the glad sense of an inward strength to carry 
out the purpose which filled the soul. It was the power 
which made the new-born Hercules stretch forth among 
the serpents his babe’s arm, and feel that in its nerves lay 
the might of the son of Jove. The thought was so solemn, 
yet so wildly delicious, that it brought a mist to Philip’s 
eyes. “ God bless you, Leigh !” he murmured. “ You have 
done me good many a time ; and if this should be true, and 
I ever do become what you say — why, I will remember 
your words, or you must remind me of them.” 

Leigh turned round, and looked for a moment fixedly 
and sadly in his companion’s face. “You do not mean 
what you say; you know that I — But we will talk no 
more now,” he said, hurriedly, as he caught sight of his 
mother entering the room. However, when he had mi- 
nutely and affectionately discussed with her the import- 
ant topic of what he could eat for dinner, the boy lay for 
a long time silent and pensive. It might be that upon 
him too had come a new and sudden thought — more sol- 
emn than even that which had cast a musing shadow over 
Philip Wychnor. Both thoughts passed on into the unde- 
fined future ; but one was of life, the other — of death ! 

Mrs. Pennythorne, supposing her boy was asleep, went 
on talking to his friend in her own quiet, prosy way, to 
which Philip had now grown quite accustomed. His fond- 
ness and care for Leigh had touched the mother’s heart, 
and long since worn away her shyness. On his part, the 
young man was an excellent listener to the monotonous, 
but not unmusical flow of mild repetitions which made up 
Mrs. Penny thorne’s conversation. On this occasion it chief 
ly turned upon Frederick’s wedding, his new house and fur- 
niture, which she accurately catalogued, beginning with the 
drawing-room carpets, and ending with the kitchen fire- 
irons. Philip tried to attend, but at last his thoughts went 
roaming, and his answers subsided into gentle monosylla- 
bles of assent, which, fortunately, were all that the lady 
required. 

Of Leigh his mother did not speak at all, except to sa^f 


198 


THE OGILVIES. 


that the pony carriage, which Mrs. Frederick had thought 
indispensable, would be useful to take the boy country 
drives when the spring came — supposing he needed them 
by that time, which was not likely, as he had been so much 
better of late. And then, as she glanced at the face which 
lay back on the sofa-pillow, with the blue-veined, shut eye- 
lids, and the dark lashes resting on the colorless cheek, in 
a repose that seemed almost deeper than sleep, the mother 
shivered, looked another way, and began to talk hastily of 
something else. A few minutes after, the peculiar rap with 
which Mr. Pennythorne signaled his arrival was heard at 
the hall door. Those three heavy strokes had always the 
effect of an electric shock on the whole household, produ- 
cing a commotion from cellar to attic. Mrs. Pennythorne 
jumped up with alacrity, only observing, timidly, that she 
hoped the knock would not awaken Leigh. 

“I am not asleep, mother,” said the boy, rousing himself 
as she quitted the room in answer to the marital summons. 
“ Mr. Wychnor, come here a minute,” he added, hurriedly, 
the flush rising into his white cheek at the very sound of 
his father’s step. “ Don’t tell him you know Drysdale — 
it might vex him. He is rather peculiar, you know.” 

“How thoughtful you are grown, my dear kind boy ! 
And was that what you lay pondering upon when we fan- 
cied you asleep?” 

“Not quite all,” Leigh replied, suddenly looking grave, 
“but — but — we’ll talk of that another time. You must 
go to the Museum Reading-room ; it would be such a nice 
place for you to work in — far better than your own close 
little room. You don’t feel what it is to be shut up all 
day, until you grow sick, bewildered, ill. No, no, you must 
not get ill,” cried the boy, earnestly; “ you must live — live 
to be a great man. And remember always what we talked 
about to-day,” he continued, dropping his voice to a whis- 
per as his father entered the room. 

Mr, Pennythorne whisked about in his usual style, skip- 
ping hither and thither, and shaking his coat-tails when- 
ever he rested, after a fashion which gave him very much 


THE OGILVIES. 


199 


the appearance of a water- wagtail. He was evidently in 
high feather too — asked Leigh how he felt himself, and 
only called him “ stupid” twice within the first ten min- 
utes. Then he turned to Philip. 

u Well, and how does the world treat you, young JVor- 
wychf ” (Mr. Penny thorne had an amusing system of cog- 
nominizing those about him by some ingenious transposi- 
tion of their various patronymics, and this was the ana- 
gram into which Philip Wychnor’s surname had long ago 
been decomposed.) “ Where do you put your carriage 
and pair, my young friend? I have not seen it yet.” 

Philip smiled, but he was too well accustomed to the 
bitter “ pleasantries” of his would-be patron to take of- 
fense, and he always bore it patiently for Leigh’s sake. 

“ Ay, that’s all the good of being a gentleman with a 
large independence — in the head, at least and Mr. Pen- 
nythorne laughed at what he considered his wit. “ Now 
here’s my Fred — clever fellow ! knows how to make his 
way in the world ! — just come from his house in Harley 
Street — splendid affair! furnished like a duke’s — as, indeed, 
Mrs. Lancaster observed. By-the-by, Cillie, my dear !” 

“ Yes, Pierce,” was the meek answer from behind the 
door. 

“I met Mrs. Lancaster in the Park — charming woman 
that; moves in the highest circles of literature. Of course 
you are acquainted with her, St. Philippus of Norwich ?” 

“No,” answered the young man, shortly; “except once 
in your hall, I never heard the name.” In truth he never 
had, notwithstanding Eleanor’s acquaintance with the lady. 
But Mrs. Lancaster was the last person likely to have place 
in the memory or the letters of Philip’s betrothed. 

“ Then you have a pleasure to come — for, of course, the 
fair Lancastrian will strain every nerve for an introduction 
to such a desirable young man, that you may embellish her 
literary soirees with your well-earned fame.” Mr. Penny- 
thorne drew the bow at a venture ; and, as he saw Philip’s 
cheek redden, congratulated himself on the keen shafts of 
his irony, quite unconscious how near sarcasm touched upon 


200 


THE OGILVIES. 


the truth. “ And this reminds me, Cillie, my deal , that, 
hearing what a beautiful and talented woman I have the 
honor to call my wife, Mrs. Lancaster has invited you to 
grace with your presence the next soiree .” 

Poor Mrs. Penny thorne drew back aghast. “ You know, 
Pierce, I never go out,” she feebly remonstrated; “I had 
rather stay with Leigh.” 

“My dear, the whole party would languish at your ab- 
sence, and I can not allow it. Besides, you will have to 
matronize your fair daughter-in-law, for Mrs. Lancaster is 
well acquainted with the Ogilvies, knows every branch of 
the family, and will ask them to meet us. The matter is 
decided — Friday, the 1 7th, sees us all at Rosemary Lodge.” 
So saying, he hopped up stairs, but not before Philip’s quick 
ears had caught the whole of the last sentence. Indeed, 
of late he had been ever on the watch for some chance in- 
formation which might have reference to Eleanor, whose 
long and unwonted silence had made him feel somewhat 
anxious. And even as he walked home that night, his 
memory retained with a curious tenacity the date and the 
place of this reunion of the Ogilvie family. He recurred 
to the circumstance again and again, in spite of the more 
serious thoughts which now occupied him, and almost 
wished that there had been some truth in the sneering re- 
marks of Mr. Pennythorne as to his own future invitation 
to Rosemary Lodge. 

There is an old Norse fable about the Nornir, or Fates, 
who sit weaving the invisible threads of human destiny, 
stretching them from heaven to earth, winding them in 
and out about man’s feet, intercepting and intervolving 
him wherever he moves. One of these gossamers, stirred 
by the breath of Philip’s idle wish, thereupon fell in his 
pathway and entangled him. But the web, at first light 
as air, grew afterward into a heavy coil, woven of the dark- 
est fibres with which humanity is bound. 


THE OGILVIES. 


201 


CHAPTER XXVn. 

You may rise early, go to bed late, study hard, read much, and devout 
the marrow of the best authors ; and when you have done all, be as mea- 
gre in regard of true and useful knowledge as Pharaoh's lean kine after 
they had eaten the fat ones. — Bishop Sanderson. 

I do not think any poet or novelist has ever immortal- 
ized that curious place well known to all dabblers in liter- 
ature or science, the Reading-room at the British Museum. 
Yet there is hardly any spot more suggestive. You pass 
out of the clear daylight into large, gloomy, ghostly rooms, 
the walls occupied by the mummied literature of some cen- 
turies, arranged in glass cases. You see at various tables 
scores of mute readers, who sometimes lift up a glance as 
you pass, and then, like Dante’s ghosts in Purgatory, re- 
lapse into their penance. Indeed, the whole scene, with 
the spectral attendants flitting to and fro, and the dim 
vista extending beyond the man who takes the checks 
(alas for poetic diction !), might easily be imagined some 
Hades of literature, where all erring pen-guiders and brain- 
workers were doomed to expiate their evil deeds by an 
eternity of reading. Not only the lover of poetic idealiza- 
tion, but the moralizing student of human nature would 
find much food for thought in the same reading-room. Con- 
sider what hundreds of literary laborers have toiled within 
these walls ! Probably nearly all the clever brains in the 
three kingdoms have worked here at some time or other — 
for nobody ever comes to the reading-room for amusement. 
If a student had moral courage enough to ask for the last 
new novel, surely the ghosts of sombre ponderous folios 
would rise up and frown him into annihilation. The book 
of signatures — where every new comer is greeted by the 
politest of attendants, handing him the most detestable of 
pens — is in itself a rich collection of autographs, compris- 
ing almost every celebrated name which has risen year by 
14 


202 


THE OGILVIES. 


year, and many — oh, how many ! — that the world has nevei 
chronicled at all. 

The Reading-room is fertile in this latter class — meek 
followers of science, who toil after her and for her, day by 
day, and to whom she only gives her livery of rags. You 
may distinguish at a glance one of these habitues of the 
place, shabby, at times almost squalid in appearance, plunged 
up to the ears in volumes as rusty and as ancient as him- 
self. At times he is seen timidly propitiating some attend- 
ant with small fragments of whispering conversation, list- 
ened to condescendingly, like the purring of a cat which 
has become a harmless household appendage. Possibly the 
poor old student has come daily year after year, growing 
ever older and shabbier, until at last the attendants miss 
him for a week. One of them perhaps sees in the papers a 
death, or some mournful coroner’s inquest, and, recollecting 
the name, identifies it as that of the old bookworm. Then 
there is a few minutes’ talk by the ticket-keepers’ den at 
the end of the rooms — one or two of the regular frequent- 
ers are told of the fact, and utter a careless “ Poor old fel- 
low, he seemed wearing out of late !” — the books put by 
for his daily use are silently replaced, and one more atom 
of disappointed humanity is blotted from the living world. 

This illustrative exordium may be considered as herald- 
ing the advent of a new Museumite in the person of Philip 
Wychnor. Speculations something like the foregoing oc- 
cupied him during the time that he was awaiting the ask- 
ed-for book, and trying to discover among the thick-set 
plantation of heads — brown, black, fair, red, and gray — 
young, old, ugly, handsome, patrician, and plebeian — the 
identical cranium of his new acquaintance, David Drysdale. 
First he thought of promenading the long alleys and peer- 
ing over every table, but this sort of running the gauntlet 
was too much for his nerves. So, inquiring of the head at- 
tendant — the tutelary Lar of the place, who knew every 
body and helped every body — a sort of literary lion’s pro- 
vider, with good-nature as unfailing and universal as his 
information — Philip soon learned the whereabouts of old 


THE OGILVIES. 


203 


Drysdale. There he was, with his bald head peering from 
a semicircle of most formidable books, looking by the day- 
light a little older and a little more rusty in attire. He 
greeted his young friend with a pleased look, and began to 
talk in the customary Museum under tone. It was a drow- 
sy murmur, such as a poet would liken to the distant hum- 
ming of the Ilybla bees ; and perhaps the simile is not in- 
apt with regard to this curious literary hive. 

“ Glad to see you here, my young friend — very glad- 
shows you’re in earnest,” said Drysdale. “ Ever been here 
before ?” 

Philip answered in the negative. 

“ Isn’t it a fine place — a grand place ? Fancy miles of 
books, stratum upon stratum : what a glorious literary 
formation ! Excuse me,” he added, smiling, “ but I’ve been 
reading geology all the morning, and then I always catch 
myself 4 talking shop ,’ as some would elegantly express it. 
You don’t study the science, I believe !” 

44 No,” said Philip; “the earth’s beautiful outside is 
enough for me ; I never wish to dive beneath it.” 

“ Mistaken there, my good sir,” answered the other, in a 
tone of gentle reproof ; “ you should try to learn a little of 
every thing. I always do. When I hear of any science or 
study, I feel quite uncomfortable until I have mastered it, 
or at least know enough of it to form a judgment on the 
remainder. You would be astonished at the heterogene- 
ous mass I have collected here” — he pointed to his fore- 
head — “ and I’m still working on. Indeed, I should lament 
something like Alexander the Great, when he reached the 
world’s end, if I thought there were no more sciences for 
me to conquer. But that is not likely,” said the philoso- 
pher, with an air of great consolation, as he eyed affection- 
ately the pile of books that surrounded him. Philip hoped 
he was not interrupting any work. 

“ Bless you, no ! I can settle to it again directly.” 

“ This would seem a capital place for the study, not only 
of books, but of human nature,” observed Philip. 44 1 nev« 
er saw such a collection of odd people.” 


204 


THIS OGILVIES. 


Drysdale laughed. “ Yes, I believe we are an odd set — ■ 
we don’t care at all for our outward man. There lies the 
difference between your man of science, the regular old 
bookworm, and your man of genius — a poet, for instance. 
The latter sort has the best of it, for with him the soul has 
greater influence over the body. I never knew a genius 
yet — mind you ! I use the word in its largest sense — who 
did not bear with him, either in face, or person, or in a cer- 
tain inexplicable grace of manner, the patent of nobility 
which Heaven has bestowed upon him, while the hard- 
working grubbers in science and acquired learning often 
find the mud sticking to them. Their pursuits are too 
much of this world to let them soar like those light- winged 
fellows. One class is the quicksilver of earth — the other, 
its plain, useful iron. You couldn’t do well without either, 
I fancy — eh ?” The old philosopher rubbed his hands, and, 
pausing in his oration, sat balancing himself on the edge 
of one of those comfortable chairs with which a benign 
government indulges Museum-frequenters. Philip, much 
amused, tried to draw the conversation into its original 
channel. 

“ You have a few fair students also ; I see a sprinkling 
of bonnets here and there.” 

Drysdale shrugged his shoulders. “ Ah ! yes. Much 
good may it do them. Some of them seem to work hard 
enough, poor little souls ! but they had far better be at 
home making puddings. I don’t like learned women in 
general — not that I mean women of real intellect, regular 
workers in literature ; but small philosophers in petticoats, 
just dipping their pretty feet into the cold water of the 
sciences, and talking as if they had taken the whole bath. 
Here’s one of them !” added the old gentleman, with vish 
ble discomfiture, as a diminutive dame in all the grace of 
fashionable costume floated up the centre — aisle we were 
about to write, and may still do so, considering what a 
great temple of literature we are now describing. 

‘‘Ah ! Drysdale, you are just the very person I want,” 
nsped the new-comer ; and Philip at once recognized both 


THE OGILYIES. 


205 


face and voice as belonging to the lady he had once glanced 
at in Mr. Pennythorne’s hall. He began to notice with 
some curiosity the well-known Mrs. Lancaster. Rather sur- 
prised was he to find so stylish a dame on terms of conde- 
scending familiarity with old David Drysdale. He did not 
know that lion-hunters often prefer for their menageries 
the most rugged and eccentric animals of that royal breed. 
Besides, the shabbiness and singularities of the queer-look- 
ing philosopher were tolerated every where, even among 
the elegant clique who honored literature by their patron- 
age. 

Philip Wychnor was too courteous to gratify his curi- 
osity by much open observation, still he could not but be 
amused by the visit of this fair devotee to literature. The 
excellent presiding Lar before mentioned, who was espe- 
cially the good genius of feminine bookworms, found him- 
self perpetually engaged in foraging out for her ponderous 
volumes which she carelessly turned over — to the imminent 
peril of her delicate lemon-colored gloves — and then as 
carelessly threw aside. One or two quiet elderly readers 
at the other side of the table had their studies grievously 
interrupted by the quick, sharp voice, and, no doubt, de- 
voutly wished all female literati, and this one especially, 
in some distant paradise of fools not particularly specified. 
At last Mrs. Lancaster began to look about her, and talk 
in an under tone to David Drysdale. Wychnor thought 
it was some literary secret, and with quite needless deli* 
cacy made for himself an errand to the catalogue-stand. 

Now Mrs. Lancaster, besides her widely professed admi- 
ration for literature, had a slight mania for Art — at least 
so she said, and was forever hunting up models of living 
physical perfection wherewith to fill her drawing-rooms. 
She had been watching for some time Philip’s exquisitely- 
marked profile as he stooped over his book, and now in- 
quired, “By-the-by, Drysdale” — (Mrs. Lancaster afFected, 
in common with many literary ladies, the disagreeable and 
mannish custom of addressing her male acquaintance with- 
out the Mr.) — “by-the-by, Drysdale, who is that clever- 


206 


THE OGILVIES. 


looking, handsome youth — he who was talking to you when 
I came in ?” 

With all his unworldliness, old David had a great deal 
of shrewdness, especially with regard to other people. He 
knew how almost impossible it is for a literary man to 
work his way without entering into the general society of 
the fraternity, and making personal interests, which mate- 
rially aid his fortune, though it is his own fault if he suffer 
them to compromise his independence. Therefore Drys- 
dale saw at once what an advantage it would be to Wych- 
nor to gain admission into Mrs. Lancaster’s clever circle. 
Immediately he set to work to clear the way by judicious 
commendations. 

“ Really, is he so very talented ? I knew I was right. 
My instinct never fails !” exclaimed the gratified lady. 
And she began to debate upon and criticise Philip’s face 
and head, in order to prove her full acquaintance with 
physiognomy and phrenology. Old Drysdale shrugged 
his shoulders and listened. He never wasted words on 
persons of Mrs. Lancaster’s stamp — “preferring,” as he 
often said, “to let himself be pelted with swine’s chaff 
rather than cast his own pearls before them.” 

However, as soon as Philip returned to the table, he per- 
formed the introduction for which the mistress of Rose- 
mary Lodge was so anxious. Wychnor was agreeably 
surprised to find himself graciously invited to accompany 
her “ excellent friend Drysdale” to join the constellation of 
literary stars that were to illuminate the Lodge with their 
presence on the identical 1 7th. 

“ By-the-by, Drysdale,” continued the lady, “ you, who 
have such a fancy for youthful geniuses, will meet one that 
night — a Miss Katharine Ogilvie.” Here Philip’s heart 
beat quicker — it always did so at the name of Ogilvie. 
Mrs. Lancaster went on. “She is wonderfully clever, and 
so lovely ! — quite a Corinne at nineteen. I never was more 
surprised than when I met her last week ; for, three years 
ago, I was staying at her father’s, Sir Robert Ogilvie of 
Summerwood Park, and she seemed the most ordinary lit- 
tle girl imaginable.” 


THE OGILYIES. 


20/ 


“ Humph ! dare say she is the same now. Mrs. Lancas- 
ter’s swans are always geese,” muttered Drysdale, in an 
aside. 

Philip’s heart beat quicker than ever, for he remembered 
Eleanor’s Christmas visit long ago. 

Mrs. Lancaster, as she prepared to depart, turned from 
the imperturbable old philosopher to her new acquaintance. 
“I am sure a man of genius like yourself, Mr. Wychnor, will 
be delighted with my young improvisati’ice, as I call her ; 
indeed, she is quite an ideal of romance. Only be sure you 
do not fall in love with her, for people say she is engaged 
to a cousin of hers, who is always at Summerwood. A pro - 
pos , Drysdale, in this said Christmas visit our friend Lyne- 
don accompanied me. You know him — indeed, you know 
every body. He has not written to me this long while. 
What has become of him ?” 

“ Can’t say, and don’t care,” replied the old man, rather 
gruffly, for his patience was getting exhausted. 

“You never chanced to meet Paul Lynedon, Mr. Wych- 
nor ?” Philip made a negative motion of the head, and the 
voluble lady continued. “You would have exactly suited 
each other — he was such a charming creature — so full of 
talent. But I must not stay chattering here. Adieu ! au 
revoir .” And Mrs. Lancaster vanished gracefully from the 
reading-room. 

David Drysdale shook himself with an air of great relief, 
somewhat after the fashion of an old house-dog round whose 
nose a troublesome fly has been buzzing. Then he settled 
down among his books in a silence which Philip did not 
feel inclined to interrupt. 

Mrs. Lancaster’s idle talk had stirred a few conflicting 
thoughts in the young man’s bosom. With a natural curi- 
osity, he looked forward to seeing this young cousin of 
Eleanor’s, who, as report said, was likely to become her sis- 
ter too. Forgetting how false rumor sometimes is, and 

how complete was the seclusion of L , he felt surprised 

— almost vexed — that his affianced had not alluded to the 
fact. He wondered also that she had never made mention 


208 


THE OGILVIES. 


at any time of this fascinating Paul Lynedon, whom she 
must, nevertheless, have intimately known at Summerwood. 

It might have been an error in judgment, and yet it was 
from a noble and truly feminine delicacy that Eleanor nev- 
er told her betrothed of the love she had refused. She had 
none of that contemptible vanity which would fain carry 
about as a trophy a string of trampled and broken hearts, 
ready to flourish them before the eyes of the accepted lover, 
should the warning be required. Even amidst her own 
happiness she had sighed over the wound she gave, and 
kept the knowledge of that rejected love sacred from all, 
as every generous, delicate-minded woman will. But her 
silence now aroused more than one doubt in the mind of 
Philip Wychnor. This was wrong; he knew it, too; yet, 
being restless and uneasy, framed excuses for this idle jeal- 
ousy over every action of his beloved Eleanor. But Philip 
Wychnor was a man, after all, and no man living ever car 
trust as a woman does. 


CHAPTER XXVHI. 

Mv mind misgives 

Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, 

Will bitterly begin its fearful date 
From this night’s revels. — S hakspeare. 

Each word swam in on my brain 
With a dim, dilating pain, 

Till it burst. * * * 

— I fell — flooded with a Dark 
In the silence of a swoon. 

When I rose, still cold and stark, 

There was night ! — E. B. Browning. 

Nothing could be better arranged than Mrs. Lancaster’s 
soirees. She collected and grouped her guests as artistic- 
ally as a fashionable bouqueti&re disposes her flowers. They 
were not all literary people — far from it : the hostess was 
too well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies and peculiari- 
ties of the faternity to risk any such heterogeneous com- 
mixture. She adroitly sprinkled here and there a few of 


THE OGILVIES. 


209 


those fair, scentless blossoms — evening-party demoiselles — 
who might be considered as hired only for the night, like 
the flowers on the staircase, to adorn the mansion. And 
then amid the gay cluster of ordinary humanities might be 
distinguished some homely-looking plant, whose pungent 
aroma nevertheless diffused itself throughout the whole 
parterre — the poet of nature’s making, who brought into 
refined saloons all the freshness, and a great deal of the 
mud, from the clods among which he was born. There, 
too, was the dandy author, who, when deigning to handle 
the pen, considered literature much the obliged party — the 
keen sarcastic wit, the porcupine of society, whom every 
body hated, yet treated with respect for fear of his quills 
— and the timid aspirant, who sat in a corner and watched 
the scene with reverent and somewhat fearful eyes. All 
these were ingeniously amalgamated, so as to form the 
very perfection of reunions. Nobody felt obliged to “talk 
blue and while the heavy conversationalists had full play 
in snug corners, there were interludes of dancing and mu- 
sic to lighten the hearts and heels of the rest. 

Philip Wychnor watched this moving panorama with 
considerable interest. At Oxford, the compulsion of hon- 
est poverty and his own inclinations had caused him to 
lead the life of a very hermit : in fact, to few young men 
of his age could that great raree-show, Society, appear so 
new. David Drysdale, who kept close beside him, took 
quite a pleasure in witnessing the almost child-like amuse- 
ment of his young acquaintance, and in pointing out to him 
the various concomitants which made up the soiree. 

“ There stand the Merry-go-rounds,” said he, pointing to 
a curiously-mingled group, in which the most prominent 
were a very big man and a very little one. “ They all be- 
long to the Merry-go-round paper — you may know that by 
their talk, a whole artillery of fun and jest. But they have 
a character for wit to keep up, and must do it, well or ill, 
like the kings’ fools of old.” 

“ Amateur assumers of the cap and bells, I presume ?” 
observed Philip, smiling. 


210 


THE OGILVIES. 


“Just so, but not all of them. Look at that man to whom 
every body listens whenever he opens his lips. He buzzes 
about like a wasp, and, wherever he settles for a minute, it 
is ten chances to one that he does not leave a sting behind. 
But he is a clever fellow, nevertheless — brimming over with 
wit; his tongue and his pen are like lancets; and if they 
do bleed Dame Society pretty freely, it is most frequently 
to keep down the old lady’s own plethora, and remove all 
bad humors.” 

“ Who is that gay butterfly of a young man, who seems 
to set himself in opposition to your wasp ? He keeps up 
an incessant rattle of small witticisms, chiefly directed to 
the ladies, with whom he appears quite a pet.” 

“ Did you ever know true coin that had not its counter- 
feit ? He is a small mimic of the other — a mushroom wit, 
sprung up in a night out of the very refuse-bed of literature. 
He belongs to the Young England school of authorship — 
impudent jesters who turn the most earnest things of life 
into a farce — who would parody Milton, and write a Comic 
History of the Bible. 

I’d put in every honest hand a whip 

To lash the rascals naked through the world, ” 

cried worthy old David, with an energy that, while it made 
Philip smile, touched him deeply. That one grain of true 
earnestness seemed to purify the whole heartless, worldly 
mass around him. The young man grew stronger in heart 
and purpose every hour of his association with Drysdale. 

“There are two of another set. You will find all this 
literary world divided into sets,” observed the old philos- 
opher, glancing toward a couple who were talking together 
a little aloof from the rest. 

“ You mean that patriarchal old man, with a grand, mass- 
ive head, and the younger one, with hair parted in the cen- 
tre, and a face that reminds one of Raphael’s angels ? I 
have been watching them some time — they talk so earnest- 
ly, and are such a picturesque couple to look at ; only I 
don’t like that outre affected style of dress.” 

“ Yet there is a great deal of good in them, for all that- 


THE OGILVIES. 


211 


They belong to the Progress movement — people sincere 
and earnest in their way, only they are ever trying to move 
the world with their own small Archimedean lever. Now, 
though I hold that every man ought quietly to put his 
shoulder to the wheel and give society a shove onward, as 
far as he can in his petty lifetime, yet I don’t like much 
talking about it. With these Progress people it is often 
‘great cry and little wool.’ They are always bemoaning, 
with Hamlet, that 

The time is out of joint, 
but rarely attempt to ‘ set it right.’ ” 

“ I agree with you,” said Philip ; “ I believe less in uni- 
versal than individual movements. If every man began 
the work of reformation in himself first, and afterward in 
his own circle, there would be no need for public revolu- 
tions at all. To use your own favorite system of symboli- 
zation, Mr. Drysdale,” continued the young man, with a 
good-humored smile, “ I think that quietly undermining a 
rock is far better than blowing it up with gunpowder, be- 
cause in the latter case you never know how far the work 
of destruction may extend, and you run a chance of being 
knocked on the head by the fragments.” Drysdale patted 
his young friend on the arm with an air of gratified ap- 
proval. “ That’s right — quite right ! Learn to think for 
yourself, and don’t be afraid of speaking what you think, 
my dear boy — excuse me for calling you so, but you are a 
boy to me.” 

Philip was about to express his sincere pleasure in this 
new friendship of theirs, when Mrs. Lancaster glided through 
the still increasing crowd. 

“ Drysdale, where are you ? Here in a corner ! Fie, fie ! 
when every one wants to talk to you.” 

“ I wish I could return the compliment, ma’am,” answer- 
ed the old man, abruptly enough, for any cynical propen- 
sities he had were always drawn out by the flippant tongue 
of Mrs. Lancaster. 

“Now really, that’s too bad! What a nice, good, dis- 
agreeable, comical creature you are ! Here is your old ac- 


212 


THE OGILVIES. 


quaintance, Mr. Pennythorne, asking for you.” And as she 
spoke the individual alluded to made his appearance, shook 
hands with Drysdale, and then, turning round, caught sight 
of Philip Wychnor. A slight elevation of the eyebrows 
marked Mr. Pennythorne’s extreme astonishment at the 
recognition, but he was too much a man of the world to 
seem discomposed by any thing. He hopped up to Philip 
with a cordial greeting. 

“My dear young friend — delighted to meet you so un- 
expectedly, and in such charming society too. And so you 
know that excellent old Drysdale — how surprising ! how 
pleasant !” And he bustled away to another part of the 
room, wondering within himself what the (Mr. Penny- 

thorne’s expletives were always confined to mere thoughts) 
brought the young rascal there. 

“You must come with me, Drysdale,” pursued Mrs. Lan- 
caster, laying her tiny white-gloved hand on the rough 
coat-sleeve of the shaggy-looking old fellow, who looked in 
that gay assemblage something like the dog Diogenes 
amidst the train of canine Alexanders in Landseer’s pic- 
ture; “I want to introduce you to my young Corinne — 
my improvisatrice But Drysdale still hung back. He 
had an unpleasant recollection of innumerable dainty MSS. 
and scores of young-ladyish poems with which he had been 
deluged in consequence of doing the civil to Mrs. Lancas- 
ter’s literary protegees . 

“It is I who particularly wish to be introduced to Mr. 
Drysdale,” said a sweet young voice behind ; and the old 
man could not resist either the voice or the bewitching 
smile that adorned the lips through which it passed. 

Philip turned gently round, and looked at Katharine 
Ogilvie. She was indeed dazzlingly beautiful — the more 
so, perhaps, from the extreme simplicity of her white dress, 
which contrasted strongly with the belaced and befurbe- 
lowed throng around. Her small, Greek-shaped head had 
no ornament but the magnificent purple-black hair, whicn 
was gathered up in a knot behind, giving to her classic 
features a character more classic still. But there was no 


THE OGILVIES. 


213 


impassive marble beauty about the face. It was all wom- 
an — the lips now dimpling with smiles, now trembling 
with ill-concealed emotion, as some sudden thought passed 
through her mind. How different from the shy girl who, 
years before, had moved timidly amidst the scene, in the 
same place ! 

Katharine felt it so ; and her heart -was full — running 
over with the delicious memories that every moment re- 
newed, and dilating with a joyful pride as she compared 
the present with the past. She felt she was beautiful — 
she saw how every eye followed her admiringly ; she knew 
that even over that gay and gifted circle the spell of her 
talents and her fascinations w T as cast. She gloried in the 
knowledge. 

“ He would not be ashamed of me now,” she murmured 
to herself, with a proud, happy smile. “No; when he 
comes again he will find Katharine not unworthy, even of 
him.” And the thought kindled a new lustre in her eyes, 
and lent an unwonted softness to every tone of her melo- 
dious voice. How happy she was ! how she seemed to cast 
every -where around her an atmosphere of gentle gladness ! 
She inclined particularly toward old David Drysdale ; and 
he, on his part, thawed into positive enthusiasm beneath 
the sunshine of her influence. 

“ I wished much to see you, Mr. Drysdale,” she said at 
last, though somewhat timidly, when the conversation with 
him had grown into quite a friendly chat. “ I have heard 
of you before, from — from an old acquaintance of yours ;” 
and the quick color rose slightly in her cheek. 

“ My dear young lady, I am really honored — delighted !” 
answered the old man, charmed almost into compliment. 
“Who could it be ?” Katharine’s lips trembled while they 
framed the name of Paul Lynedon. 

“Lynedon — Ah! I remember him — fine fellow to look 
at, with a great deal in him. But ours was a very slight 
acquaintance. I have heard nothing of him since he went 
abroad. Ever been abroad, Miss Ogilvie ?” added Drys- 
dale, unconsciously turning the conversation ; at which 


214 


THE OGILVIES. 


Katharine felt a vague disappointment, for it was pleasant 
even to hear a stranger utter the name that was the music 
of her heart. 

“No,” she replied. “I know scarcely any thing of the 
world except from books.” 

“And perhaps the knowledge thus gained is the best, 
after all ; at least so says my young friend Philip Wychnor 
here,” said Drysdale, good-naturedly turning to where his 
new favorite sat aloof. Philip was trying to alleviate his 
rather dull position wifh looking over various books. 

“ Philip Wychnor !” echoed Katharine, suddenly recol- 
lecting the name. It caught the owner’s ear, and the eyes 
of the two young people met. “This must be Eleanor’s 
friend ; Hugh told me he was in London,” she thought to 
herself ; and an instinct of something better than curiosity 
made her ask for an introduction. 

“I believe you are not quite unknown to me, Mr. Wych- 
nor,” said Katharine, as Philip — answering Drysdale’s sum- 
mons — came up to them. “Are you not a friend of my 
two cousins, Hugh and Eleanor Ogilvie ?” Philip answer- 
ed in the affirmative. 

Katharine thought his hesitation sprang from the shy- 
ness of one unused to society ; women have so much more 
self-possession than men. She tried to reassure him by 
continuing to talk. “I am quite delighted to meet you. 
I remember perfectly how warmly my cousins spoke of 
you — Eleanor especially. You have known her many 
years ?” 

“ Many years. And her brother — how is he ?” continued 
W ychnor, not daring to trust his voice with a more direct 
question. 

“ Hugh is quite well, I believe — I hope. He left Sum- 
merwood some days since,” said Katharine, while a shadow 
of annoyance passed over her face, and the clear brow was 
contracted for a moment. 

“ To L , to join his sister, I conclude ?” 

“ Oh no ! Eleanor is gone abroad, you know.” 

“ Gone abroad ?” 


THE OGILVIES. 


215 


“Yes, to Florence, with Mrs. Breynton, her friend, and 
your aunt — is she not? I thought of course you were 
aware of the fact.” Philip felt sick at heart; muttering 
some unconnected words, he turned to look for Drysdale, 
for he had no power to sustain the conversation. Howev- 
er, the old man was gone. At another time Katharine’s 
curiosity and sympathy would have been excited, but now 
her attention was drawn away from him by a chance word 
— one that, whenever uttered in her hearing, pierced 
through any buzz of conversation, compelling her to listen 
— the name of Paul Lynedon. 

Katharine and Philip chanced to sit together on one of 
those round ottomans which seem made for double tdte-dr 
tetes , and behind them were a lady and gentleman chatting 
merrily. 

“ Mr. Lynedon !” repeated the latter. “ So, my dear 
Miss Trevor, you really know my excellent friend Paul 
Lynedon ?” 

“ I should rather say I knew him, since it is several years 
since we met. He went on the Continent, I believe ? A 
sudden departure, was it not, Dr. Saville ?” 

“Hem! my dear madam. Therein hangs a little mys- 
tery that I would not mention to any one but to you, who 
were his very particular friend. In fact, poor Lynedon 
was in love.” 

“ You don’t say so !” 

“ Oh yes ; he told me all about it at the time — long at- 
tachment — lady engaged to another gentleman. But — 
heigh-ho — people’s minds change so. I think Lynedon 
will get her after all — and so does Lizzie.” 

“‘All’s well that ends well.’ When is he likely to be 
married r” 

“ Lynedon ? Why — though you must never breathe a 
word of this — I have every reason to believe it will be very 
soon. In fact, the happy event may have come off already. 
For, he tells me, he has lately met her abroad, where she 
lives with an old lady. He sees her every day. Sly fel- 
low — he says nothing of the wedding ; but he writes full 


216 


THE OGILYIES. 


of happiness. I think I have the letter in my pocket now 
— if I did not send it home this morning to Lizzie. No! 
here it is.” 

Every word of this mixture of truth and falsehood fell 
on the stunned ear of Katharine Ogilvie. Yet she sat im- 
movable, her fingers still turning over the book on her lap, 
her lips still fixed in the courteous smile of attention. Once 
only her eyes wandered, with uncertain incredulousness, 
over the letter which Dr. Saville held. It was the known 
handwriting — his hand ! Passionate in all her impulses, 
she drank in, undoubting, the horrible truth. Her heart 
died within her, and w T as turned to stone. 

The next moment Dr. Saville moved to make way for 
Mrs. Lancaster, who fluttered up, all empressement , and en- 
treated her “ sweet Katharine” to sing. Katharine arose, 
and crossed the room with a steady footstep. Philip Wych- 
nor sat down in her place. 

“ What a lovely girl that is, and with what intense feel- 
ing she sings !” observed a gentleman to Miss Trevor, as 
Katharine’s voice came from the inner room, clear, full, and 
pure, without one tremulous tone. 

“ Yes, she is a sweet creature — a Miss Katharine Ogil- 
vie.” 

“ Ogilvie — how singular ! Has she any sisters ?” inquired 
Dr. Saville. 

“ No, I believe not. Why do you ask ?” 

“ Because the name of Paul Lynedon’s old love — the 
young lady he is going to marry— was Ogilvie— Eleanor 
Ogilvie.” There was a movement of the fashionable crowd 
as one of the guests hastily wound his way through and 
passed out at the door. When David Drysdale came to in- 
quire for his young friend, Philip Wychnor was already 
gone. Still the gay throng fluttered, laughed, and chat- 
tered for an hour or two more, and then dispersed. 

“ My dear Katharine, how silent you are !” remarked Lady 
Ogilvie, as the carriage drove homeward. 

“ I am tired— so tired ! Let me alone !” was the answer, 
in a cold, sharp tone, that excited the mild reproach : 


THE OGILVIES. 


217 


“Really, my dear, I hope you will not get spoiled by the 
admiration you receive.” There was no reply, and the two 
parents dozed off to sleep. 

Katharine reached her own room and locked the door. 
Then she flung her arms above her head with a wild cry 
of agony — half sob, half moan, and fell heavily on the floor. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

There I maddened. . . . Life swept through me into fever, 

And my soul sprang up astonished — sprang, full-statured in an hour : 

—Know you what it is when anguish with apocalyptic Never 
To a Pythian height dilates you and despair sublimes to power? 

E. B. Browning. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears such bitter fruit ? 

I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at its root. 

Tennyson. 

Oh ye cold clear winter stars, look down pityingly on 
that solitary chamber where was poured out the anguish 
of first passionate love ! Erring it might be — hopeless, 
visionary, even unmaidenly — but it was pure, nursed in sol- 
itude, and hidden from all human eyes. With strength 
such as woman only knows, Katharine for hours had sung, 
talked, and sat in smothered silence ; but when she was 
alone the terrible cry of her despair burst forth. It was 
indeed despair — not pining, girlish sorrow — utter despair. 
She neither fainted nor wept, but crouched on the floor, 
swaying to and fro, her small hands tightly clenched, her 
whole frame convulsed with a choking agony. 

“ O God ! O God ! let me die !” rose up the almost im- 
pious cry of the stricken heart that in happiness had rarely 
known either thanksgiving or prayer, while moan after 
moan broke the night-stillness. She breathed no word — 
not even his name. All that she felt then was a longing 
for silence — darkness — death. But this stupor did not last. 
Her burning, tearless eyes, wandering round the room, fell 
first on the flowers she wore — his favorites ; then on a book 
he had given her — alas ! her whole daily life was full of 
15 


218 


THE OGILYIES. 


mementoes of him. At once the flood of anguisli burst 
forth unrestrained. 

“ Oh, Paul, Paul, must I think of you no more ? is the old 
time gone forever? A life without you, a future wherein 
the past must be forgotten — where even to think of it will 
be a sin— a sin. O God, that I could die 1” And then, like 
a lightning-flash, came the thought, that even that old time 
over which she mourned had been only a self-beguiling 
dream. He had never loved her, not even then; but he 
had made her believe so. That moment a new storm of 
passion arose in her heart. 

“ He deceived me ; he deceived me even then ! I, in my 
madness, have given him all — life, hope, youth, and he has 
given me — nothing ! Paul ! Paul Lynedon !” (and, rising- 
up, she stood erect, pride, indignation, scorn on every feat- 
u re), “how dared you — how dared you to call me your Kath- 
arine — your ‘own Katharine’ — when all the while you loved 
another woman ? And now, maybe, you are laughing with 
her over the poor foolish girl who trembled and blushed in 
your sight, who had given you her whole heart’s love, and 
would have died for yours ! Died ? Shall I die ? shall I ? 
She went to and fro with quick wild steps, her cheeks burn- 
ing like hot coals. No tears — no, poor wretch — to allay her 
misery came not one blessed tear ! Suddenly she stopped 
before the mirror, and surveyed herself from head to foot, 
regarding intently the beauty in which she had so gloried 
for his sake. 

“ Shall he say that I pined for him in unrequited love — I, 
Katharine Ogilvie, who might have been admired, loved — 
ay, worshiped ?” And her memory pictured the face of 
Hugh, as when he had last bade her good-by, pale, sad, 
with tears in the kind eyes that had watched over her for 
so many years. His love, if rude, was deep and sincere, 
and hardly merited a rejection so cold and scornful as she 
had lately given. Then in her heart dawned a purpose, 
sprung from the passion which for the time had almost 
changed to hate, and now warped every feeling of her im- 
pulsive nature. It was a purpose from which every woman 


THE OGILVIES. 


219 


who loves witli a holy and pure love, however hopeless, 
would turn shuddering aside, feeling how great was the 
sin. 

“ You shall never triumph over me — you, Paul, and that 
wife of yours ! you shall never laugh together at the girl 
who broke her heart for you. No; I will live — live to 
make the world know, and you know, what I am ! Yes, 
you shall hear of me — my beauty, and my talents !” And 
a strange, bitter laugh of self-derision broke from those 
white lips, over which, a few hours before, had dimpled the 
sweet, happ3 r girlish smile. But that never came again — 
no, never mere ! 

You, O Man ! who with your honey words and your ten- 
der looks steal away a young girl’s heart for thoughtless 
or selfish vanity, do you know what it is you do ? Do you 
know what it is to turn the precious fountain of woman’s 
first love into a very Marah, whose bitterness may pervade 
her whole life’s current — crushing her, if humble, beneath 
the torture of self-contempt, or, if proud, making her cold, 
heartless, revengeful — quick to wound others as she herself 
has been wounded ? And if she marry, what is her fate ? 
She has lost that instinctive worship of what is noble in 
man, which causes a woman gladly to follow out the right- 
eous altar-vow, and in “ honoring” and “ obeying” her hus- 
band, to create the sunshine of her home. And this is 
caused by your deed ! Is not such deed a sin? Ay, sec- 
ond to that deadly one which ruins life and fame, body and 
soul ! Yet man does both toward woman, and goes smiling 
back into the world, which smiles at him again. 

It may be said, and perhaps truly, that with most young 
girls love is a mere fancy ; that the pain, if any, is soon for- 
gotten, and so the infliction of it becomes no crime. But 
how few hearts are ever read, even by those nearest and 
dearest ! There may be in the inmost core of many a worm 
of which the world never knows. And every now and then, 
undistinguished outwardly from the vapid, fickle tribe, may 
be found some nature like Katharine Ogilvie’s — of such a 
one, a blow like this makes either a noble martyr-heroine, 


220 


THE OGILYIES. 


or a woman over whom the very demons gloat ; for thej 
see in her their own likeness — she is a fallen angel too. 

The distant clanging of Summerwood church-clock re- 
sounded above the moaning of the bleak November wind — • 
one, two, three, four. Katharine heard the strokes, and 
paused. Twelve hours before, she had counted them, and 
longed for the passing of the brief winter twilight, that the 
pleasant night might come. It would perhaps bring — not 
the sight of Paul Lynedon ; that she knew was impossible 
— but at least some tidings of him. Now — oh, terrible 
change ! It was from a world of sunshine to the same 
world encompassed by a thick darkness — not that of holy, 
star-spangled night, but the darkness of a heavy* mist, 
which pierced into the very soul. Yet she must walk 
through it, and alone ! The dull, blank future lifted itself 
up before her with terrible distinctness. Year after year 
to live and endure, and she scarce twenty yet ! Katharine 
shuddered ; one wild thought of death — blessed, peaceful 
death, self-summoned — entered her soul ; but that soul was 
still too pure to let the evil spirit linger there. Flinging 
herself on her knees, she buried her head in the little w T hite 
bed, where night after night she had lain down, reserving 
always, when the day’s cares or pleasures were thought 
over, a few minutes to muse in the still darkness upon her 
secret maiden love, and then had gone calmly to sleep, 
breathing, with a tender blessing, the one beloved name. 
Now that name must never be uttered more ! 

“ O God !” she moaned, forgetting her usual form of night- 
ly prayer — alas for Katharine ! in forms only had she learn- 
ed to pray — “ O God ! have mercy — have mercy on me !” 
Let us speak no more of this night’s agony. It was such as 
no human being has ever witnessed, or ever will, for the 
heart’s most terrible struggles must be borne alone. But 
a few have felt it — God help those few ! He only who 
gave to mortal nature the power of thus loving, can guide, 
and sway, and comfort in a like hour. But Katharine Ogil- 
vie knew not this ; therefore, ere the wild prayer which 
despair had wrung forth passed from her lips, its influence 


THE OGILVIES. 


221 


had vanished from her heart. Into that poor torn heart 
entered misery unknown before ; and its chambers, no lon- 
ger swept and garnished, became the habitation of legions 
of evil thoughts — to be exorcised thence no more. 

The world’s daily round goes on, heedless of life, death, 
love — the three elements which compose its chief sorrows 
and its best joys. Katharine lay down and slept — yes, 
slept, for terrible suffering often brings such torpor. In 
the morning she arose and dressed — calmly, without a tear 
or moan. Only once — as she stood arranging her long, 
beautiful hair, in which she always took great pride, for his 
hand had rested on it — the remembrance struck into her 
heart like a dagger. She could have torn the magnificent 
tresses from her head, she could have cursed the beauty 
that had failed to win Paul Lynedon ! Henceforward, if 
she regarded at all the self-adornment which in due meas- 
ure is charming in a woman, it would be, not from that 
loving desire to be fair in one beloved sight, but from a 
desperate, vainglorious pride. She w ould drive men mad 
with her beauty, dazzle them blind, set her foot on their 
necks, and laugh them to scorn ! 

Katharine passed down the staircase. The study-door 
was open, and her grandfather’s great cat came purring 
about her feet, inviting her in. But to cross the threshold 
of the well-known room ! Every thing in it cried out wdth 
a fiend-like, mocking voice, “Fool — fool — self-deceiving fool! 
The past, the precious past, is nothing — was nothing. Blot 
it out forever !” She shivered, locked the door, and fled 
down the hall. On the table lay some green-house flowers 
— the old gardener’s daily offering. Above them her bird 
sang to her its morning welcome — the gladder because the 
clear winter sunshine reached it even in its cage. Mechan- 
ically Katharine placed the flowers in water ; gave the bird 
his groundsel ; stooped down to stroke her ever-attendant 
purring favorite — but the great change had come. Girl- 
hood’s simple pleasures were no more for her; she had 
reached the entrance of that enchanted valley -which is 
either paradise or hell — crossed it, and shut the gate be* 
hind her — forever. 


222 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Don’t stay here longer than you like, my dear,” said 
Lady Ogilvie, as, long after breakfast was over, and Sir 
Robert had ridden off to London, Katharine, contrary to 
her custom, lingered in the room, sitting motionless by the 
fire, with her hands — those dear active little hands, gener- 
ally always employed — folded listlessly on her lap. She 
turned round, bent her head assentingly, and then gazed 
once more on the fire. 

“ Still here, Katharine !” again mildly wondered Lady 
Ogilvie, pausing, an hour after, in some housekeeping ar- 
rangements. “ Pray, my love, do not let me keep you from 
your studies. I am not at all dull alone, you know ; do 
run away, if you like.” 

“ I can’t, mamma ; I am tired,” said Katharine, wearily. 
“ Let me stay with you.” 

“ By all means, dear child. Really you do not look well; 
come and lay your head on my lap, as you know you al- 
ways like to do.” 

She drew her daughter to her feet, and began smoothing 
her hair with motherly tenderness, talking all the while in 
her mild, quiet way. She was very much surprised when 
Katharine, burying her face in her knees, began to weep 
violently, murmuring amidst her sobs, 

“ Oh mother, mother, you love me — yes, I know you do ! 
Tell me so again. Let me feel there is some one in the 
wide world who cares for me.” 

“ My darling Katharine, you are quite ill. This comes 
of late hours. Indeed, my child, you must cease going to 
parties. Tell me how you feel exactly.” And she com- 
menced various maternal questionings and advice, which, 
if tender, were rather prosy and out of place, as they entire- 
ly related to the physical welfare of her child. Such a 
thing as a tortured and diseased mind never entered into 
simple Lady Ogilvie’s calculations. 

Katharine understood this, and drew back into herself at 
once. Her good and tender mother was very dear to her, 
so far as natural and instinctive affection went, but in all 
else there was a wide gulf between them — now wider than 


THE OGILVIES. 


223 


ever. Unfortunate Katharine ! there was in the whole 
world no tie close enough to satisfy her soul, no hand strong 
enough to snatch her from the abyss into which she was 
already about to plunge. 

“You shall go and lie down again, my dear,” said the 
mother. But Katharine refused. She dared not be alone, 
and she longed for an opportunity to say that for which 
she had nerved herself. So, suffering her mother to place 
her comfortably on the sofa, she rested in apparent quiet 
for half an hour. Lady Ogilvie went in and out softly, and 
then settled herself to an occupation which was always 
heavy and irksome to her — writing a letter. Looking up 
with a sigh, after five minutes spent over the first three 
lines, she saw her daughter’s eyes fixed intently upon her. 

“ Dear me, Katharine, I thought you were asleep,” she 
said, trying to conceal the note. 

“ No, I can not sleep. Who are you writing to, mamma?” 

“ Only to Hugh — poor Hugh ! I promised him I would. 
But you need not be angry at that, my child.” 

Katharine saw the opportunity had come : she seized it 
with a bold, desperate effort. “ Mother, put away the let- 
ter and come here ; I want to speak to you — about Hugh.” 
Her voice and face were both quite calm ; the mother did 
not see that under the folds of the shawl with which she 
had covered her child the damp hands were so tightly 
clenched that the mark of the nails remained on the rosy 
palm. 

“ Do not let us talk about Hugh, my darling ; it was 
very sad, and your father and I were troubled and disap- 
pointed at the time, because we wanted to see our Katha- 
rine happy, and we liked Hugh so much. But if you could 
not love him, why, you know, my child, we shall never teaze 
you any more on the subject. Pray be content.” Katha- 
rine rose up and looked her mother in the face. Years aft- 
er, when gentle Lady Ogilvie lay on a death-bed, she de- 
scribed that look, and said it ever haunted her, with the 
rigid colorless lips, the dark stony eyes, “ neither smiling 
nor sorry.” 


224 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Mother,” said the girl, “ do not wonder at me — do not 
question me — but I have changed my mind. I will marry 
Hugh, when he or you choose. Write and tell him so.” 
She put her hand to her heart for a moment, as if the effort 
of speaking had brought a pain there — as indeed it had, a 
sharp bodily pain ; but she hardly felt it then. She sat up, 
and bore her mother’s startled, searching glance without 
shrinking. 

“Do you really mean what you say, Katharine ? Will 
you make poor Hugh — make us all, so happy ? Will you 
indeed marry him ?” 

“ I will.” Lady Ogilvie, much agitated, did what nine 
out of ten gentle-hearted and rather weak-minded women 
would do on such an occasion — she caught her daughter to 
her bosom, and wept aloud. Katharine repulsed not the 
caresses, but she herself did not shed a tear. A faint mis- 
giving crossed the mother’s mind. 

“ My darling Katharine, you are happy yourself, are you 
not ? You are not doing this merely to please your father 
and me ? Much as we wished this marriage, we never will 
consent to the sacrifice of our child.” 

“ I am not sacrificing myself, mother.” 

“Then you really do love Hugh — not in a sentimental, 
girlish way, but enough to make you happy with him as 
your husband?” 

“My husband — Hugh my husband!” muttered Katha- 
rine, with quivering lips ; but she set them firmly together. 
The next moment her old manner returned. “ Mother, I 
marry Hugh because I choose ; and when I say a thing I 
mean it — ay, and do it, too. You know that. Is this rea- 
son sufficient ? I can give half a dozen more if you wish.” 

“No, my dear love, no. Pray be quiet. I am only too 
happy — so happy I don’t know what to do with myself.” 
And she moved restlessly about, her eyes continually run- 
ning over, even while her mouth wore its most contented 
smile. 

“ Now, mamma, come here,” said Katharine once more, 
drawing the letter from its hiding-place. “Finish this. 


THE OGILVIES. 


225 


Tell Hugh that I have thought over the matter again, and 
have changed my mind. I will marry him whenever he 
chooses. Only it must be soon — very soon.” 

“How strange you are, my love! You do not seem to 
feel at all like other young girls.” 

“ Of course not — I never did. Now write as I say.” 

I will — I will, dear ! Only why must the marriage be 
so soon ?” 

“ Because I might change my mind,” said Katharine, bit- 
terly. “ I have done so once before. My nature must be 
very fickle ; I want to guard against it, that is all. Now 
write, dear mother — write.” 

The letter was written and dispatched. Then Katha- 
rine’s strange manner passed away, and she seemed calm. 
So the prisoner, who writhes in agony on his way to the 
scaffold, on reaching it mounts with a firm and steady step ; 
he shrank from the doom afar off; it comes, and he can 
meet it without fear. 

Lady Ogilvie kept near her child the whole day. In 
Katharine’s demeanor she saw only the natural agitation 
of a young girl in such a position. She was most thankful 
that her dear child had made up her mind to marry Hugh, 
such an excellent young man as he was, and so suitable in 
every respect. This marriage would unite the title and 
estate, keep both in the family besides, and prevent Kath- 
arine’s leaving Summerwood. No doubt they would be 
very happy ; for if Katharine was not positively in love 
with her cousin, she liked him well enough, and it was al- 
ways best to have most love on the husband’s side. So 
reasoned Lady Ogilvie, sometimes communicating her 
thoughts aloud. But Katharine received them coldly, and 
at last begged her to change the subject. The mother, 
ascribing this to natural shyness and sensitiveness, obeyed 
— as, indeed, she generally did — and only too glad was she 
to have her daughter by her side the whole day. 

“You have quite deserted your own little room, though 
I know you like it far better than this large, dull drawing- 


226 


THE OGILVIES. 


room. Come, dear child, let us both go, and you shall sing 
for me in the study.” 

“ Not there! not there!” answered Katharine, shudder- 
ing. “ I will not go into that room. I hate it.” 

“ Why so?” gravely said the mother, surprised, and rath 
er uneasy at these sudden whims. Katharine recovered 
herself in a moment. 

“ Did I not tell you how fickle I was ? There is a prool 
of it.” And she forced a laugh — hut oh, how changed from 
the low, musical laugh of old ! “Now don’t teaze mte, there’s 
a dear mother. I have a right to he fanciful, have I not ? 
Let me try to sing my whims away.” She began to ex- 
temporize, as she often did, composing music to stray poet- 
ry. First came an air, not merely cheerful, but breathing 
the desperation of reckless mirth. It floated into a passion- 
ate lament. When she ceased, her face was as white as mar- 
ble, and as rigid. She had poured out her whole soul with 
her song ; and, absorbed in a deep reverie, she had called 
up the past before her. She had filled the half-darkened, 
desolate room with light, and music, and gay laughter. 
Beside the dear old piano she had seen standing a tall fig- 
ure, with folded arms, and eyes bent dreamily forward. A 
moment, and she must shut it out forever — from heart, and 
fancy, and memory. This song was the dirge of her youth 
and its love. She closed the instrument, and in that room 
or in that house Katharine vowed never to sing more. She 
never did ! 

Worthy Sir Robert Ogilvie was mightily astonished, 
when he came home next day, to find his nephew hourly 
expected as a future son-in-law. He kissed his daughter — 
a ceremony performed solemnly at Christmas and Easter, 
or when he went on a journey — told her he was much grati- 
fied by her obedience, and felt sure she would be exceed- 
ingly happy in her marriage. 

“ Only,” observed the sedate baronet to his wife, when 
they were alone together, “ it would have saved much 
trouble and annoyance if Katharine had known her own 
mind at first. But I suppose no women — especially young 
women — ever do.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


227 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Deep as love, 

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 

Oh death in life — the days that are no more ! 

Tennyson. 

It was the eve of the wedding-day — the day which was 
to unite, in newspaper parlance, “ Katharine, only child and 
heiress of Sir Robert Ogilvie, ofSummerwood Park, to Hugh 
Ogilvie, Esq., only son of the late Captain Francis Ogilvie, 
of His Majesty’s Service.” Xever was there a better match, 
and so said every gossiping party in the village, from the 
circle round the blacksmith’s warm, welcome forge, to that 
round the doctor’s equally welcome tea-table. Every body 
had guessed how it would end, and only wondered it had 
not come off before. All the world and his wife were mak- 
ing ready for the next day ; for the wedding was to be at 
the village church, with all necessary accompaniments of 
green boughs, young girls dressed in white, charity chil- 
dren, etc., etc. 

Love would ever fain seal its vows unobserved, in glad 
and solemn privacy; but no such impediment came be- 
tween Sir Robert and his desire for a little aristocratic os- 
tentation. “It was proper,” he said; “for the Ogilvies 
were always married and buried in public, with due cere- 
mony.” Katharine assented; and if there came a deeper 
and bitterer meaning to the set smile which her lips now 
habitually wore, her father never noticed it. She let them 
all do with her just what they pleased ; so the joint con- 
ductors of the affair, Lady Ogilvie, Mrs. Fred Penny thorne, 
and Sir Robert, arranged every thing between them. 

On the wedding-eve the two former sat with the young 
bride in her dressing-room. It was strewed with attire of 
every kind — laces, silks, and satins, tossed about in beauti- 
ful confusion. The female ministrants at this shrine had 
been trying on the wedding-dress, and it hung gracefully 


228 


THE OGILVIES. 


over the back of a chair, with the wreath and veil. Lady 
Ogilvie was just wiping, for the thousandth time, her ever- 
tearful eyes, and saying she did not know what she should 
do without Katharine, even for a month. 

“I dare say you will have to learn, aunt,” said Mrs. 
Frederick, who had been quite in her element of late, ad- 
ministering consolation, lectures, and advice, with all the 
dignity of a newly-married lady. u For my part, I wonder 
that Katharine likes the thought of coming back to Sum- 
merwood. I never would have married Frederick at all if 
I could not have a house of my own.” 

“ I believe you,” said a cold, satirical voice, as Katharine 
looked up for a moment, and then continued her work, 
making white favors for some old servants, who had beg- 
ged for this token from the bride’s own hands. 

“Really, my dear, how sharply you take one up ! You 
quite forget I am married,” said Mrs. Penny thorne, tossing 
her head. “ But I suppose we must humor you. Howev- 
er, things will be different when you are settled again at 
Summerwood.” 

“ When I am,” was the pointed reply. 

“ When you are !” echoed Mrs. Frederick. “ Why, I 
thought the matter was quite settled. Your father wishes 
it — and your future husband. Ah ! when you are married, 
Hugh will make you do whatever he likes.” 

“ Hugh will do whatever I like,” said Katharine, haughti- 
ly, and she knew she spoke the truth ; the humble, loving 
slave of one man was fast becoming the tyrant of another. 
It is always so. “Ask him the question yourself,” she add- 
ed, as the bridegroom put his beaming face in at the door. 

Hugh Ogilvie was a fine specimen of mere physical beau- 
ty — the beau ideal of a young country squire : most girls 
would have thought him a very Apollo at a race-course 
or a county ball ; and, though somewhat rough, he was not 
coarse, else how could Katharine have liked him? as she 
certainly did while they were only cousins. And since his 
affection for her had grown into the happiness of assured 
love, his manner had gained a softness that was almost re- 


THE OGILVIES. 


229 


finement. If with others he laughed loudly, and talked 
with some vulgarity, he never came into her presence, or 
within the sphere of her influence, but his tone at once be- 
came gentle and suppressed. He loved her very dearly, 
and she knew it ; but the knowledge only brought alter- 
nately scornful triumph and torturing regret. 

“Cousin Hugh ! cousin Hugh ! there’s a pretty attempt 
at rebellion in your bonnie bride !” said Isabella, flippantly. 
“ It vows and declares that it will not obey its husband, 
and does not intend to live at Summerwood.” 

“ What is that about not living at Summerwood ?” said 
Lady Ogilvie, turning round uneasily, with her pocket- 
handkerchief at her eyes; “Katharine does not surely 
mean to say that ! To lose her so would break my heart.” 

“It must not do that, mother; I hope it will not,” an- 
swered Katharine, steadily, “ but I may as well say at first 
as at last that I can not live here any longer ; I am quite 
wearied of this dull place, and Hugh must take me away — 
as he promised he would when I engaged to be his wife. 
Is it not so, Hugh ?” 

“ Yes, yes — but I thought — that is, I hoped — ” stammer- 
ed the bridegroom, with a disappointed look. 

“You thought I should not expect you to keep your 
promise ? Well, then, I see no necessity to keep my own.” 

“ My darling Katharine, don’t say so !” cried the lover, 
in new anxiety, as he flew to her side and took her hand. 
She drew it away, not in coquettish anger, but with a proud 
coldness, which she had already learned to assume. Al- 
ready — already the tender womanliness was vanishing from 
her nature, and she who had once suffered the tortures of 
love was beginning to inflict them. 

“ Here’s a pretty lovers’ quarrel ; and the very day be- 
fore the wedding, too !” cried Isabella ; “ aunt, aunt, you 
and I had better leave them to make it up alone.” And 
Mrs. Fred Pennythorne led through the open door the still 
weeping and passive Lady Ogilvie, who now more than 
ever was ready to be persuaded by any body. To tell the 
truth, Isabella, who had not lost a jot of her envious term 


230 


THE OGILVIES. 


per, rather hoped that the slight disagreement might end 
in a regular fracas, and so break off the marriage. 

Katharine was left alone with her bridegroom. She saw 
that the time was come for using her power, and she did 
use it. No statue could be more haughtily impassive than 
she, though not a trace of that contemptible quality, female 
sullenness, deformed her beautiful face. She ruled her lov- 
er with a rod of iron : in a minute he was before her, hum- 
bled and penitent. 

“Katharine — dear Katharine — don’t be angry. I will 
do any thing you like ; only we should be so happy living 
here.” 

“ I will not stay at Summerw T ood. I hate it. Hugh, 
you promised to take me away ; remember that promise 
now, if you love me, as you say you do.” And Katharine, 
restless from the thought of the battle she had to win, and 
a little touched by Hugh’s gentleness, spoke less freezingly 
than before. 

“ If I love you ? You know I do,” answered Hugh, fond' 
ly winding his arm round her neck. She thrust it back a 
moment, and then, smiling bitterly, she let it stay. He had 
a right to caress her now. “Katharine,” continued he, 
“don’t you remember the time when we were children — 
at least you were — and I used to carry you in my arms 
through the fields ? Don’t you remember the old times — 
how we went gathering blackberries — how I led your pony 
and taught you to ride — do you think I did not love you 
even then ? And though, when we grew up, we began to 
like different pursuits, and you were a great deal cleverer 
than I, didn’t I love you as much as ever — more, perhaps ?” 

“ You did — you did. Good, kind cousin Hugh !” mur- 
mured Katharine, with a pang of self-reproach. She thought 
of her old, happy childish days, before the coming of that 
wild, delicious, terrible love. 

“ Well, then, Katharine, let us stay at Summerwood. It 
will please your father and mother, and me too — though I 
don’t say much on that score, and I care little about my- 
self in comparison with you ; but it would be rather hard 


THE OGILVIES. 


231 


to give up the shooting and farming, to shut one’s self up 
in a close, nasty London square. I really don’t think I can 
consent to it.” Katharine rose from her seat — all her pass- 
ing softness gone. She was resolved to rule, and this was 
the first struggle. The victory must be gained. 

“ Hugh Ogilvie,” she said, with a cold firmness, “ I never 
deceived you from the first. I told you even when you 
came back to — to be my husband”— she said the word 
without trembling or blushing — “ that I did not love you 
as you loved me. But I liked you — had liked you from a 
child. I respected, esteemed you ; I was willing to marry 
you, if you chose. Is not that true ?” 

“ It is — it is,” murmured the bridegroom, shrinking be- 
neath her proud eye. 

“ But I made the condition that you should take me to 
live elsewhere — to see the world; that I should not be 
cooped up here — it tortures me — it kills me ! I want to 
be free — and I will ! Otherwise no power on earth shall 
persuade or force me to marry you — not even though to- 
morrow was to have been our wedding-day.” 

“Was to have been! Oh, Katharine, how cruel you 
are ! Say shall be , for indeed it shall. We will live wher- 
ever you like — only don’t give me up, Katharine. I know 
how little you care for me — I feel it ; but you may come 
to care more in time, if you will only let me love you, and 
try to make you happy. Indeed — indeed I would.” And 
the young man, perfectly subdued, knelt before her as she 
stood, clasping her knees, with tears running down his 
cheeks. One flash of evil triumph lighted up Katharine’s 
face, and then, for the second time, a pang of remorse 
pierced her soul. The wickedness, the falsehood of the 
coming marriage-vow — the cruel trampling upon a heart 
which, whatever its shortcomings, was filled with love for 
her, rushed upon her mind. For a moment she thought 
of telling him all ; there was a whisper within, urging her 
to implore his forgiveness, and rather brave the humilia- 
tion of hopeless, unrequited love, than the sin of entering a 
married home with a lie upon her soul. But while she lies* 


232 


THE OGILYIES. 


itated, outside the door rang the light, mocking laugh of 
Isabella; and the world — its idle jests, its hateful pity — 
rose to her remembrance. Her proud spirit writhed. One 
struggle — the whisper grew fainter, and the good angel 
fled. 

“ Katharine, say you forgive me,” pleaded Hugh ; “ you 
shall have your own way in this and every thing else, if 
you will only try to love me, and be my sweet, dear, pre- 
cious wife !” 

“I will,” answered Katharine. If, as the Word saith, 
“ there is joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth,” 
surely there must have been sorrow then over one fallen 
soul ! 

The same night, long after the whole house was hushed, 
a light might have been seen burning in one of the upper 
windows at Summerwood. It came from Katharine’s cham- 
ber. There, for the last time, she kept vigil in the little 
room which had been her shut-up Eden in childhood, girl- 
hood, womanhood. The very walls looked at her with the 
old faces into which her childish imagination had trans- 
formed their shadowy bunches of flowers, when she used 
to lie in bed — awake, but dreaming many a fanciful day- 
dream, before her mother’s morning summons and morning 
kiss — always her mother’s — broke upon this paradise of 
reverie. Then there was the bookcase, with its treasure- 
laden shelves, arranged so as to form a perfect life-chroni- 
cle. The upper one was filled with old, worn child’s-books, 
two or three of Mrs. Hofland’s beautiful tales, such as the 
Clergyman’s Widow, the Young Crusoe, and the Barbadoes 
Girl — books which every child must love; beside them 
came a volume of Mrs. Ilemans’s, and the delicious “ Story 
without an End,” showing the gradual dawning of fancy 
and poetry in the young mind. And so the silent history 
went on. The lower shelf was all filled with works, the 
strong heart-beatings of heavenly-voiced poets and glo- 
rious prose-writers — Shelley, Tennyson, Miss Barrett, Car- 
lyle, Bulwer, Emerson. And in this era of the chronicle, 
each volume, each page, was alive with memories of that 


THE OGILVIES. 


233 


strong love which had been the very essence of Katharine’s 
life, out of which every development of her intellect and 
every phase of her character had sprung. 

She sat by the fire, rocking to and fro, on the little rock- 
ing-chair, which had been one of her fancies, and the sooth- 
ing motion of which had many a time composed and quiet- 
ed her in her light passing troubles. Beside her, on the 
table, lay the old worn-out desk she had used when a child, 
and in which, afterward, she kept her “treasures.” She 
opened it, and looked them all over. 

They were many, and curious, but all relating in some 
way or other to the great secret of her life. There were 
numberless fragments of stray poetry, or rather rhyme; 
some her own — some which she had copied — fragments 
made ever after sacred by some comment or praise of Paul 
Lynedon’s. As she read these over one by one, her breast 
heaved with convulsive sobs. She choked them down and 
went on with her task. Other relics were there — the usual 
girlish mementoes — a heap of withered flowers, which day 
after day he had given her — and she had kept them all. 
Likewise some versions of a song, written in a bold, manly 
hand — Lynedon had done it to beguile the time while she 
was copying music, and had scribbled all along the sides 
of the page her name and his own. 

Apart from these, in a secret drawer, lay Paul’s letter — 
his first and only letter. Katharine tore open its folds, 
and read it slowly all through. But when she reached the 
end, she dashed it to the floor. 

“ ‘ His Katharine — his own Katharine !’ And it was all 
false — false ! Oh, poor fool that I was — poor, vain, credu- 
lous fool — But it shall be so no more ; I will crush him from 
my heart — thus — thus !” 

Her foot was already on the letter ; but she drew back, 
snatched it once again, and pressed it wildly to her lips 
and her heart. 

There was one more relic : that sketch which bore such 
a curious resemblance to Paul Lynedon — the head of Keats. 
Katharine took the long-hoarded treasure from its hiding- 

16 


234 


THE OGILYIES. 


place, and gazed fixedly on it for a long time. Then the 
fountain of her tears was unlocked, arid sobs of agony shook 
her whole frame. 

“ Oh Paul ! heart of my heart ! why did you not love 
me ? Is there any one in the world who would have wor- 
shiped you as I? I — who would have given my life to 
make you happy — who would now count it the dearest 
blessing only to lean one moment on your breast, to hear 
you say ‘ My Katharine !’ and then lie down at your feet 
and die. Die ? Shall I die for one who has thus cruelly 
deceived me? Kay; but I beguiled myself; I only was 
vain — mad — blind ! What was I, to think to win him ? 
Paul — Paul Lynedon — no wonder that you loved me not ! 
I was not worthy — oh no — I was not worthy. I am fit for 
nothing but to die !” 

In this fearful vigil of despair, fierce anger, and lingering 
love, the night w r ore on. It seemed an eternity to the mis- 
erable girl. At last, utterly exhausted, Katharine sank 
into a deadly calm. She sat motionless, her arms folded 
on the little desk, and her cheek leaning against the mourn- 
ful relics of a life’s dream. Suddenly she heard the twit- 
ter of a bird, and saw her lamp grow pale in the daybreak. 
Then she arose, gathered up her treasures, laid them sol- 
emnly, one by one, on the embers of the dying fire, and 
watched until all were consumed. 

The next day — nay, the same day, for it was already 
dawn — Katharine Ogilvie was married. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Seldom hath my tongue pronounced that name. 

* * * * * * * 

But the dear love, so deeply wounded then, 

I in my heart with silent faith sincere 
Devoutly cherish till we meet again. — Southey. 

We are about to break through all dramatic unity of 
place, and to convey our readers abroad. Suppose, then, 
the scene transferred to the Continent — Italy — Florence. 


THE OGILVIES. 


235 


But the reader need not shudder at the name, and expect 
long-winded descriptions of scenery — chapters taken at 
random from Murray’s Hand-book ; since, for various rea- 
sons, we shall eschew all landscape-painting. 

There is, we understand — for truth forbids us to speak 
without this qualification — in Florence a pleasant square, 
which forms a general lounge for idlers, rich and poor, na- 
tive and foreign, inasmuch as it contains a market, a curi- 
ous antique building — called, not unappropriated, the Pa- 
lazzo Vecchio — and the town post-office. This latter place 
is of course the perpetual resort of foreigners who are anx- 
ious to snatch their precious home-remembrances from the 
well-known carelessness of Italian officials. Thus, almost 
all the British residents, or passing visitors to Florence, 
may be seen at different times strolling round this square. 

Among them, one day in winter, were two ladies walk- 
ing slowly, the elder leaning on her companion’s arm. Be- 
neath the close black bonnet and veil of the taller one ap- 
peared the sharp, regular features of Mrs. Breynton. She 
looked a little older, perhaps, and a little more wrinkled ; 
but she was still the same Mrs. Breynton, the widow of 
the dean, with her tall, straight figure, and her canonically- 
flowing black robes. The young girl on whom she leaned 
was, it is needless to say, Eleanor Ogilvie. 

Hear Eleanor — the much-tried but yet happy, because 
loved and loving one ! let us look once more on that slight 
drooping figure, like a willow at a brook side — that pale 
clear brow — those sweet, calm eyes ! But adjectives and 
metaphors fail ; she is of those whom one does not even 
wish to describe — only to look upon, murmuring softly, “ I 
love you — I love you !” evermore. And where there is 
love there must be beauty, perhaps the more irresistible 
because we can not tell exactly in what feature or gesture 
it lies. 

Time passes lightly over all equable natures; it had 
done so over Eleanor Ogilvie. Her mind and character 
were nearly matured when we first saw her, and a few 
years made little difference. Perhaps the fair cheek was 


236 


THE OGILVIES. 


somewhat less round, and the eyes more deep and thought- 
ful, especially now, when a care heavier than ordinary 
weighed on her gentle spirit. But it caused no jarring 
there — no outward sign of impatient trouble. To a heart 
so pure, even sorrow comes as a veiled angel. 

“ How cold it is, Eleanor !” said Mrs. Breynton, as the 
occasional east wind, which makes a Lombard winter al- 
most like a northern one, swept round the tower of the Pa- 
lazzo Vecchio; “I do not see that I am any the better for 

coming to Italy; it was much warmer at L .” And 

as she spoke, one might perceive that her voice had 
changed from the slow preciseness of old, to a sharp, quer- 
ulous tone, which seemed to ask, as if through long habit, 
for the soothing answer that never failed. 

“It is indeed very cold ; but this bleak wind only comes 

now and then. We may be sure that Doctor B was 

quite right when he ordered you to the South ; and I think 
your cough is better already.” 

“ Is it ?” said the invalid ; and, to disprove the fact, she 
coughed violently. “No, no — I shall die of asthma, I 
know, like my father, and my great-uncle, Sir Philip Wych' 
nor.” Here there was a slight movement in the arm on 
which the old lady rested; it caused her brow to darken, 
and the thin lips, through which had unconsciously issued 
this rarely-uttered name, were angrily compressed. She 
did not look at her companion, but walked on in silence for 
some minutes. Nor did Eleanor speak, but her head droop- 
ed a little lower, and the moistened eyelash and trembling 
lip could have told through how much forbearance and 
meekness, daily exercised, had Philip’s betrothed kept her 
promise to him. She was indeed as a daughter unto the 
stern woman who had once shown kindness toward her 
lover. It was a strange bond between the two, and form- 
ed of many conflicting elements. On one side, the very 
wrath of Mrs. Breynton toward her nepbew made her heart 
cling with a sort ol compassion to the young girl whom 
she deemed he had slighted ; while, on the other hand, El- 
eanor forgot at times even the present wrong done to her 


THE OGILYIES. 


237 


lover, remembering that Mrs. Breynton fras Philip’s near 
kinswoman, and had once been, as far as her cold nature 
allowed, in the stead of a mother to him. There was still 
a lingering warmth in the ashes of that olden affection. 
Eleanor saw it many a time, even in the sudden anger 
aroused by some chance memento of Philip’s childhood ; 
and, day by day, her whole thought, her whole aim, was to 
revive this former love. Thus silently, slowly, she pursued 
the blessed work of the peacemaker. 

They advanced toward the post-office, where, as usual, 
was a cluster of people anxiously struggling for letters. 
It would have been an amusing scene for a psychologist or 
a student of human nature; but the English ladies had too 
much interest on their own account to notice those around. 
They were trying to make their way through the crowd, 
which, trifling as it was, inconvenienced the precise Mrs. 
Breynton exceedingly. 

“ Let us stay in the rear of this gentleman, who is prob- 
ably waiting for the English letters,” whispered Eleanor, 
glancing at a tall, cloak-enveloped personage who stood in 
front. Softly as she spoke, he seemed to catch the tone, 
for he turned round suddenly, and Eleanor recognized the 
face of Paul Lynedon. 

She had seen him more than once before — at least she 
fancied it was he — in their walks about Florence. But he 
had never indicated the slightest wish for a recognition. 
Now, it was difficult to avoid it. Their eyes met; her 
color rose, and there was a slight contraction of his brow ; 
but the next moment he bowed with an easy grace and a 
polite smile that at once banished from Eleanor’s mind all 
regretful thought of the lover she had rejected. She held 
out her hand with a frank kindness ; he took it with the 
same. There was no agitation, no pain visible in his coun- 
tenance, for there was none in his heart. A little annoy- 
ance or mortification he perhaps might feel on being un- 
pleasantly reminded of the time when he had “ made such 
a fool of himself,” but he was too polite and too proud to 
betray the same in word or manner. 


238 


THE OGILVIES. 


Paul Lynedon quite overwhelmed Mrs. Breynton with 
his expressions of gratification at meeting with two “ fair 
countrywomen.” hie was as agreeable as of old, but his 
manners wore less of the graceful charm which springs 
from a kindly heart, and more of that outward empresse- 
ment which sometimes assimilates to affectation. It was 
evident that he had become a complete man of the world. 
He easily procured their letters. There were several for 
Mrs. Breynton, and two for Eleanor. Hugh’s large, care- 
less handwriting marked one of the latter. She opened it, 
and started in joyful surprise at the intelligence it contain- 
ed — the announcement of the intended marriage of her 
brother and cousin. In sisterly exultation, she proclaimed 
the news aloud. 

“ How glad I am ! how I always wished for this ! Dear 
Hugh ! dear Katharine ! You remember Katharine, Mr. 
Lynedon ?” were her hurried exclamations. 

Mr. Lynedon “ remembered her quite well, as every one 
must — a sweet girl ! He was indeed happy to hear she 
was married.” This was not exactly true, as, in running 
over the list of fair young creatures who had looked favor- 
ably on himself, Paul had unconsciously fallen into the 
habit of including Katharine Ogilvie. She was a mere 
child then, to be sure, but she might grow up pretty ; and 
if so, supposing they ever nret again, the renewal of his 
slight flirtation with her would be rather amusing than 
otherwise. At hearing of her marriage, he felt an uncom- 
fortable sensation — as he often did at the wedding of any 
young girl who had appeared to like himself. It seemed 
to imply that Paul Lynedon was not the only attractive 
man in the world. Even when Eleanor, chancing to draw 
off her glove, had unconsciously exhibited the unwedded 
left hand, he had glanced at it with a pleasurable vanity. 
Though he was not in love with her now, and really won- 
dered how he ever could have been, still he felt a degree 
of self-satisfaction that no other man had gained the prize 
which he now blushed for ever having sought. How gradu- 
ally the rust of vain and selfish worldliness had crept over 
Paul Lynedon’s soul ! 


THE 0GILVIES. 


239 


“ They must be married by this time,” observed Eleanor, 
referring to the letter. “ Hugh says, I think, that it was to 
be very soon — ah ! yes, the 27th.” 

“Then to-morrow is the wedding-day,” said Lynedon. 
“Allow me thus early to offer you my warm congratula- 
tions, with every good wish to the happy couple.” Eleanor 
thanked him, her heart in her eyes. Then he made his 
adieux, and disappeared among a group of Florentine la- 
dies. There was a ball that night in Florence, at which 
none were more brilliant or admired than the young En- 
glishman. He smiled as he listened to his name, brokenly 
and coquettishly murmured by many a fair Italian dama. 
He did not hear from afar the wild moan of one stricken 
heart, that in lonely despair sobbed forth the same. Oh 
Life ! how blindly we grope among thy mysteries ! 

Mrs. Breynton expressed the proper degree of pleasure 
in a few formal congratulations; but her knowledge of 
Hugh was small, and her interest in him still less, for the 
range of the good lady’s sympathies had never been very 
wide. Besides, she was somewhat shocked at the impro- 
priety of reading letters in the street, and had carefully 
gathered up her own budget for a quiet home-perusal. 
However, on reaching their abode, she condescended so far 
as to ask to see Hugh’s letter. Eleanor gave it before she 
had herself quite read through the long and rambling effu- 
sion of a lover’s delight. 

Over it the aged eyes seemed slowly to journey without 
a single change of expression. Eleanor watched the im- 
movable face, and marveled. A love-history of any kind 
is regarded so differently at three-and-twenty and three- 
and-sixty. But when Mrs. Breynton in her slow perusal 
reached the postscript, her countenance changed, grew 
pale, and then darkened. She hastily refolded the paper, 
laid it on the table, and, snatching up her own packet of 
letters, quitted the room. 

Eleanor again took Hugh’s epistle, and read : “ Cousin 
Bella was married lately to a Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. 
By-the-by, through this wedding, our old friend, or rathe! 


240 


THE OGILVIES. 


yours, Philip Wychnor, has turned up again. The Penny- 
thornes know him, and Katharine met him at a grand liter- 
ary party. He asked after you, but he did not speak about 
Mrs. Breynton. Is there any breeze between him and the 
old aunt? He is growing a celebrated author, having 
turned out quite a genius, as Katharine says — and she 
must know, being so clever herself,” etc., etc. And the 
lover returned, of course, to the praises of his beloved. 

Eleanor paused, oppressed with many mingled feelings. 
It was now a long season since she had heard from Philip, 
though she herself had written regularly. At first his sud- 
den silence pained her ; and, casting aside all girlish ca- 
price and anger, she had sent more than one letter asking 
the reason, but no answer came. She then felt, not doubt 
of his faithfulness, but terror for his health ; until this fear 
was lightened by her continually tracing his name in va- 
rious literary channels, and on one occasion receiving, ad- 
dressed to her in his own handwriting, Philip’s first pub- 
lished book. She marveled that even her loving and de- 
lighted acknowledgment of this still brought no reply. 
And yet she trusted him still. She would have doubted 
the whole world rather than Philip Wychnor’s truth. 

Truthful and candid as she was, Eleanor had never sought 
to make her correspondence with her betrothed a clandes- 
tine one. Between herself and Mrs. Breynton there was a 
perfect silence on the subject, without attempt either at ex- 
planation or concealment. Month after month the post- 
bag of the palace had been trusted with these precious love- 
messages from one true heart to the other, therefore now 
no doubt of foul play ever crossed the mind of the young 
betrothed: she would have scorned to harbor such an un- 
worthy suspicion of Philip’s aunt. Still, Eleanor had need 
of all her courage and faithful love to bear this suspense. 
Even now, when she rejoiced at these good news of him, 
her gentle heart was sorely pained that Philip himself 
should not have been the first to convey it. 

She dried a few gathering tears, and determined to trust 
him still, until the near termination of this Italian journev 


THE OGILVIES 


241 


should enable her to visit Summerwood, when some blessed 
chance would bring her face to face with her betrothed. 
Then she mechanically opened the second letter, which had 
been neglected for Hugh’s. 

It informed her that sub-dean Sedley, the unwearied back* 

gammon-player of the Close, at L , had died, and left 

her, Eleanor Ogilvie, sole legatee of all his little fortune ! 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Cym. Oh disloyal thing, 

That should repair my youth ; thou heapest 
A year’s age on me. 

Imo. I beseech you, 

Harm not yourself with your vexation : I 
Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare 
Subdues all pangs, all fears. 

Cym. Past grace ? obedience ? 

Shakspeare. 

Mrs. Breynton hacf 1 the character of being a strong* 
minded woman ; but no one would have thought so to see 
her when, after leaving Eleanor, she proceeded to her own 
apartment and walked restlessly up and down, her whole 
countenance betraying the inward chafing of her spirit. 
She glanced carelessly at the letters she still held, and 
threw them down again. She was just beginning to grow 
calm, when another packet was brought her with “Mr. 
Lynedon’s compliments, and he felt glad to have been able 
to rescue the inclosed from further delay at the post.” 

Mrs. Breynton returned a polite message, put on her 
spectacles, and prepared herself to read the second edition 
of correspondence. The first of the batch w T as evidently 
interesting — as it might well be — for it looked the facsim- 
ile of that lawyer’s epistle which had communicated to 
Eleanor such important tidings. Mrs. Breynton was rising 
to summon her young friend, when the second letter caught 
her eye. It was addressed to Miss Ogilvie, yet she snatch- 
ed it up, and eagerly examined the handwriting. It resem 

L 2 


242 


THE OGILVIES. 


bled that of many a school-boy letter which at Midsummer 
and Christmas had come to the palace, which she had 
deciphered — not without pleasure — from the flourishing 
“ Dear Aunt,” to the small, cramped ending, “ Your duti- 
ful and affectionate nephew.” It was still more like the 
careless college scrawl which had weekly informed her of 
Oxford doings in a frank, easy style, whose informality 
sometimes gained a grave reproof. As she held the letter 
to the light, her fingers trembled, even though her brow 
was angrily knitted. Then she turned to the seal — a rath- 
er remarkable one. It was her own gift — she remembered 
it well — with the Wychnor crest and a cross underneath. 
What trouble she had taken»to have it engraved in time 
for his birthday ! How dared he think of this, and use it 
now ! 

Mrs. Breynton had never been a mother. No child had 
ever clung to her bosom, and nestled near her heart, to 
charm away all coldness and harshness there. Marrying 
without love, she had passed through life, and never felt a 
single strong affection. Perhaps tne warmest feeling of her 
nature had been that which in her girlhood united her to 
her only brother. After this tie was broken, her disposi- 
tion grew cold and impassive, until the little Philip came 
— a softened image of the past, a vague interest for the fut- 
ure. Every lingering womanly feeling in her frost-bound 
heart gathered itself around the child of her dead brother ; 
and with these new affections came a determination, spring- 
ing from her iron will and inflexible prejudices, to make 
the son atone for the still unforgiven dereliction of the fa- 
ther in quitting that service of the sanctuary which had 
become part of the family inheritance. 

A female bigot is the most inveterate of all. The Smith- 
field burnt-offerings of Mary Tudor were tenfold more nu- 
merous than those of the kingly wife-murderer who called 
her daughter. Had Mrs. Breynton lived in those days, she 
would have rejoiced in a heretic-pyre. Therefore, when 
she tried to constrain her nephew to enter the Church, it 
was with the full conviction that she was doing her best 


THE OGILVIES. 


243 


for his soul as well as for his temporal interests. She loved 
him, as much as a woman like her could love ; she desired 
his welfare ; hut then all good must come to him through 
one way — the way she had planned. To this road she had 
alternately lured and goaded him. In his destiny she pro- 
posed to include two atonements — one on the shrine of the 
Church ; the other, by his union with Eleanor, to the mem- 
ory of the girl’s forsaken mother. 

When the conscientious scruples of the young man 
thwarted this great scheme of her life, Mrs. Breynton was 
at first paralyzed. That Philip should venture to oppose 
herself — that he should dare to doubt those ecclesiastical 
mysteries, without the pale of which she conceived all to 
be crime and darkness, was a greater shock than even the 
shortcomings of his father. She felt overwhelmed with 
horror and indignation — an indignation so violent that 
both then, and for a long time afterward, it caused her, like 
most bigots, to confound the sinner with the sin, until she 
positively hated the nephew who had once been to her a 
source of interest and pride. But, this first tempest of 
wrath over, she began to incline toward the lost one ; and 
with a strange mingling of affection, obstinate will, and 
that stern prejudice which seemed to her darkened eyes 
the true spirit of religion, Mrs. Breynton determined, if 
she could not win, to force her nephew into the path for 
which she had destined him. 

Long she pondered upon the best method of accomplish- 
ing her will ; and, embittered as she was against Philip, it 
was some time before she could reconcile her pride and 
her conscience to do that which, by driving him to de- 
spair, would at last bring home the repentant prodigal. 
But when, in her blindness, she had fully satisfied herself 
that “ the end sanctified the means,” she commenced the 
plan which suggested itself as best. No more letters were 
received either by Philip or Eleanor. All were intercept- 
ed and consigned to the flames, in Mrs. Breynton’s room. 
She did not open or read a single one ; for, while persuad- 
ing herself that she was fulfilling a stern duty, the dean’s 


244 


THE OGILVIES. 


widow would have scorned to gratify idle curiosity or mal- 
ice. She could, self-deceived, commit a great crime, but 
she could not stoop to a small meanness. Unmoved, she 
saw Eleanor’s cheek grow pale with anxiety, and fancied 
that all this time she was working out the girl’s future 
happiness ; that the recreant lover would be brought to 
his senses, would immediately seek his betrothed. Once 
more under her roof — and Mrs. Breynton longed with a 
sickly longing to have him there once — she doubted not 
her influence over him. She could not lose him again. 

It would be a curious study for those who rightly and 
justly believe in the perfectibility of humanity to trace 
how often, at the root of the darkest, woe-creating crime, 
lurks some motive which, though warped to evil, has its 
origin in good. So it was with this woman. She stood 
looking at the letter, and thinking over the news which 
had come to her knowledge concerning Philip. It had ir- 
ritated and alarmed her to hear of her nephew’s success. 
She feared lest her own hold over him should grow weak- 
er as he prospered in the world. Indignant beyond en- 
durance, she crushed the letter in her hand, and — the seal 
broke ! But for this chance she might have withstood the 
desire which prompted her, by plunging still deeper into 
deceit, to arrive at a clear knowledge of Philip’s motives 
and intentions, so as thereby to guide her own. For a 
moment she paused irresolute, and then the evil wish con- 
quered — Mrs. Breynton opened the letter. It seemed to 
have been written at various times, the first date being 
many weeks back. 

“Eleanor !” it began — and the handwriting, which often 
betrays what words succeed in concealing, was tremulous 
and illegible — “ you said one day — that soft spring morn- 
ing, do you remember ? — when we stood together in the 
window, looking on the palace-lawn — your hand on my 
shoulder, and my arm encircling you, as it had a right to 
do then — you said that we must have no secrets from one 
another ; that we must never suffer the faintest shadow to 
rise up between us. There has been none until now ! El- 


THE 0GILVIES. 


245 


*nor, dearest — still dearest — shall I tell you what troubles 
ne? A doubt — idle, perhaps wrong, and yet it weighs 
me down. I heard last night, by chance, a few words that 
I would only have smiled at but for your long silence and 
your departure from England. You have gone, as I under- 
stand, and without informing me. Was this quite right, 
my Eleanor ? Still, there may have been a reason. My 
aunt — but I will not speak of her. Let me come at once 
to this idle rumor. They say — though I do not believe it 
— that three years ago — which must have been at the very 
time, the blessed spring-time when I first told you how 
precious was your love — another did the same. In short, 
that you were wooed — willingly wooed — by a Mr. Paul 
Lynedon, whom you met at Summerwood. Why did you 
never speak of this acquaintance — for of course he was 
nothing more ? You could not — no, my Eleanor, my all- 
pure, all-true Eleanor ! — you could not have deceived me, 
when you confessed that I — such as I am, inferior in out- 
ward qualities to many, and doubtless to this Paul Lyne- 
don, if report be true — that I was dearer to you than all 
the world. How I hesitate over this foolish tale — let me 
end it at once. Well, then, they say that this same Lyne- 
don is now with you at Florence ; that fact is certainly 
true. As for the rest — oh ! my kind and faithful one, for- 
give me ; but I am anxious, troubled. Write, if only one 
line. Not that I doubt you — do not think it; but still — 
However, I must wait, for I have to find out your address 
by some means before I can send this.” 

The letter continued, dated later, “You do not know 
what I suffer from your silence, Eleanor. I have seen Hugh, 
your brother — mine that is to be. His careless greeting 
pained me. It was perhaps best to keep our engagement 
so secret, and yet it is humiliating. Hugh chanced to 
speak of your visit at Summerwood long ago; of Paul 
Lynedon, too — with that name he jestingly coupled yours. 
He said but few words ; for his mind was too full of his 
approaching marriage — of course you are aware of it, Elea- 
nor? But these few words cut me to the heart. And I 


246 


THE OGILVIES. 


must wait still, for Hugh has lost your address. Ho! I 
can not wait — it is tortur® I must go to L . * * * * 

“L , March 20th. 

“ You see I am here — on the very spot, so sacred — but 1 
dare not think of that now. Eleanor, I have learned — be- 
lieve me, it was by mere chance, not by prying rudely into 
your affairs — I have learned that this story was not all 
false — that Paul Lynedon was here — with you. And yet 
you never told me! What must I think? There is a 
cloud before me. I see two images — Eleanor, the Eleanor 
of old — true, faithful, loving, in whom I trusted, and would 
fain trust still ; and the other Eleanor, secretly wooed of 
Lynedon, the heiress of Dean Sedley — you see I know that 
too. You need not have concealed your good fortune from 
me, but this is nothing compared to the other pang. I try 
to write calmly ; yet if you knew — But I will rest until to- 
morrow. * * * * 

“I think the madness — the torture is over now. All 
day — almost all night — I have been walking along our old 
walks ; by the river, and beneath the cathedral shadow — 
in your very footsteps, Eleanor, as it seemed. I can write 
to you now and say what I have to say — calmly, tenderly, 
as becomes one to whom you were ever gentle and kind. 
Eleanor, if you love this man, and he loves you — he could 
not but do that ! — then let no promise once given to me 
stand between you two. Mr, Lynedon is, as I hear, not un- 
worthy of you — high-minded, clever, rich, and, withal, cal- 
culated to win any woman’s heart. If he has won yours, I 
have no right to murmur. Perhaps I ought rather to re- 
joice that you will be saved from sharing the struggles 
and poverty which must be my lot for many years — it may 
be while I live. Be happy ; I can endure all ; and peace 
will come to me in time. Eleanor, my Eleanor ! — let me 
write the words once more — only once — God bless you ! 
He only knows how dearly I have loved, how dearly I do 
love you ! But this love can only pain you now, so I will 
not utter it. 


THE OGILVIES. 


247 


“ One word yet. If all this tale be false — though I dare 
not trust myself to think so — then, Eleanor, have pity ; 
forget all I have said in my misery ; forgive me — love me 
— take me to your heart again, and write speedily, that I 
may once more take to mine its life, its joy, its lost treas- 
ure ! But if not, I will count your silence as a mute fare' 
well. A farewell ! and between us, who — ” 

Here two or three lines were carefully obliterated, and 
the letter ended abruptly with one last blessing, the mourn- 
ful tenderness of which would have brought tears to any 
eyes but those cold, hard ones that read it. 

Mrs. Breynton now discovered, like many another short- 
sighted plotter, that her scheme had worked its own ruin. 
With Philip’s final parting from Eleanor she herself would 
lose her remaining influence over his future destiny. And 
such a separation must be the inevitable consequence of 
the silence which could be the only answer to her nephew’s 
letter, unless she made a full confession of her own duplici- 
ty. And, even then, what would result? A joyful recon- 
ciliation, and Philip’s speedy union, not with the portion- 
less Eleanor, but with Dean Sedley’s heiress, thus forever 
excluding that ecclesiastical life which now more than ever 
Mrs. Breynton wished to force upon her nephew. She was 
taken in her own toils. She writhed beneath them ; and, 
while helplessly she turned over in her mind some means 
of escape, a knock came to the door. The dull red mount- 
ed to her pale, withered cheek as Mrs. Breynton, with an 
instinctive impulse, tottered across the room, and hid Phil- 
ip’s letter in her escritoire. 

“May I come in, dear friend?” murmured a tremulous 
voice outside. And Eleanor entered, almost weeping, yet 
with a strange happiness shining in her face and mien. 
She had the lawyer’s letter in her hand, and, without speak- 
ing, she gave it to Mrs. Breynton. The latter read it me- 
chanically, glad of any excuse to escape those beaming, in- 
nocent eyes. Then she rose up and touched Eleanor’s 
brow with her frigid lips. 

“ I wish you joy, my dear. You are a good girl, and de* 


248 


THE OGILVIES. 


serving of all happiness. Mr. Sedley was right to leave his 
fortune where it would be worthily u-sed. I hope that it 
may prove a blessing to you.” 

“ It will ! it will ! Oh, how glad, how thankful I am !” 
cried Eleanor, as her thoughts flew far over land and sea 
to where her heart was. Thither she herself would soon 
journey, to drive away with one word, one smile, the light 
cloud which had come between her and Philip; and then 
pour out all her new store at his feet, joyful that she could 
bring to him at once both richness and happiness, worldly 
fortune and faithful love. 

Mrs. Breynton regarded her with a cold, suspicious glance. 

“ I do not often seek to know your concerns,” she said, 
sharply. “Indeed, I have carefully abstained from inter- 
fering with them in any way ever since you have resided 
with me, Miss Ogilvie.” 

“ Do not call me thus. Say Eleanor ,” was the beseech- 
ing answer. 

“ Well, then, Eleanor, may I be excused for asking why 
a not very worldly-minded girl like you should be so ex- 
traordinarily happy at receiving this legacy? What do 
you intend to do with it?” Eleanor was accustomed to 
the sudden changes of temper which the invalid often 
exhibited, but now there was a deeper meaning in Mrs. 
Breynton’s searching, irritated look. It brought a quick 
blush to the girl’s cheek ; and, though she did not reply, 
she felt that her silence was penetrated and resented. 

“Are you going to leave me, now that you are become 
an independent lady?” was the bitter question which deep- 
ened the flush still more. 

“ I always was independent — Hugh took care of that — 
and, if not, I would have made myself so,” said Eleanor, 
rather proudly. “ But you know I staid with you by your 
own wish — and my own too,” she added, in her gentlest 
tone, “ to love you, and be a daughter to you. How could 
you think I should forget all this, Mrs. Breynton ?” 

“Well, we will not talk about that,” muttered the old 
lady, with a slight change of feature. “You will stay, 


THE OGILVIES. 


249 


then ? Other people may not be more forgetful of kind- 
ness shown to their old age than was Dean Sedley. You 
will not leave me, Eleanor ?” 

Eleanor threw herself on her knees beside Mrs. Breyn- 
ton’s chair. “ We will not leave you,” she whispered. 
“ Oh, dear friend ! now this good fortune has come, let me 
be your very own — your child — your niece, and forgive us 
both. Indeed we have suffered very much — I and — Phil- 
ip !” The long-forbidden name burst from her lips accom- 
panied by a flood of tears. Mrs. Breynton started and 
stood upright. 

“ Do you mean to tell me that you will marry that un- 
grateful fool ! that beggar ! who has insulted his aunt, and 
disgraced his family ? Is this the way you show your love 
for me? Eleanor Ogilvie, you may become my niece if 
you will, but it shall be an empty name, for you shall nev- 
er see my face again. So choose between me and him 
whose name you have dared to utter. If I hear it spoken 
in my presence again, it shall be echoed by my lips too, 
but after it shall come a curse !” And the aged woman, 
overpowered by this storm of anger, sank back in her chair. 
Eleanor, trembling in every limb, sprang up to assist her, 
but she pushed her aside. 

“Call Davis; I want no one else. Go away.” Eleanor 
dared not disobey, for she w r as terrified at this burst of 
passion, the first she had ever seen in Mrs. Breynton. She 
summoned the maid, and was gliding out of the room, 
when the old lady called her back, and said in a low, hoarse 
w T hisper: “Remember, Eleanor, before either of us sleep 
this night, I will know your intention one way or the oth- 
er. I must have your promise, your solemn promise, to 
last your life long, or if not — ” 

Her voice ceased, but her eyes expressed the rest. That 
look of anger, doubt, threatening, and yet entreaty, haunt- 
ed Eleanor for many hours. How sore a strait for one so 
young ! Her heart was almost rent in twain. It was the 
old contest, old as the world itself— the strife between duty 
and love. 

17 


250 


THE OGILVIES. 


Most writers on this subject are, we think, somewhat in 
the wrong. They never consider that love is duty — a 
most solemn and holy duty ! He who, loving and being 
beloved, takes upon himself this second life, this glad bur- 
den of another’s happiness, has no right to sacrifice it for 
any other human tie. It is the fashion to extol the self- 
devotion of the girl who, for parental caprice, or to work 
out the happiness of some love-lorn sister, gives up the 
chosen of her heart, whose heart’s chosen she knows her- 
self to be. And the man who, rather than make a loving 
woman a little poorer in worldly wealth — but oh, how rich 
in affection ! — proudly conceals his love in his own breast, 
and will not utter it — he is deemed a self-denying hero ! 
Is this right ? 

You writers of moral fiction, who exalt to the skies sac- 
rifices such as these, what would you say if for any cause 
under heaven a wife gave up a husband, or a husband a 
wife, each dooming the other to suffering worse than 
death? And is the tie between two hearts knitted to- 
gether by mutual love less strong, less sacred, before the 
altar-vow than after it ? Is not the breaking of such bond 
a sin, even though no consecrated ordinance has rendered 
the actual perjury visible guilt? 

When will you, who with the world-wide truths of the 
ideal show forth what is noblest in humanity, boldly put 
forward this law of a morality higher and more wholesome 
than all your tales of sacrifices on filial and paternal shrines 
— that no power on earth should stand between two beings 
who worthily, holily, and faithfully love one another ? 

By this law let us judge Eleanor Ogilvie. 


THE 0GILVIES. 


251 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Countess. Now I see 

The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
Your salt tears’ head. . . . 

Helena. My dearest madam, 

Let not your hate encounter with my love, 

For loving where you do.— Shakspeark. 

It was almost night before Eleanor was summoned to 
the chamber of Mrs. Breynton. The latter had already re- 
tired to rest ; and Davis, on quitting the room, whispered 
that her mistress had seemed any thing but well for sev- 
eral hours. In truth, the thin, white, aged face that lay on 
the pillow was very different from the stern, haughty coun- 
tenance of old. If Mrs. Breynton had any idea of working 
out her purpose by touching Eleanor’s feelings, she cer- 
tainly went the right way to do so. The poor girl, strong 
as she had been a few minutes before, felt weak, almost 
guilty now. She sat down beside the bed, silent and trem- 
bling. 

Mrs. Breynton did not speak ; but the imperious eyes, 
which anger had lighted up with all the fires of youth, im- 
placably asked the dreaded question. Eleanor trembled 
still more. “ Dear Mrs. Breynton, do not let us talk now ; 
it is so late, and you are wearied. Let me wait until to- 
morrow.” 

“ But I will not wait. I never break my word. I told 
you I must have an answer, and I will. Eleanor Ogilvie, 
before I sleep you must promise that you will not throw 
away yourself and your fortune by marrying that vile, dis- 
honored, ungrateful nephew of mine.” 

Eleanor’s spirit was roused. Is there any loving wom- 
an’s that would not be? “You are mistaken, Mrs. Breyn- 
ton ; such appellations are not meet for Philip Wychoor.” 

“ Ah ! you dare utter his name after what I have said l 
Have you forgotten ?” 


252 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ I have forgotten all that was wrong — all that you your- 
self would soon wish to forget. Why do you feel so bit- 
terly toward him — you, whom he loved so dearly — you, 
who loved him too, once, and thought him so good and so 
noble-minded — as he is still?” 

“ It is a lie ! .and you defend him to my face !” 

“ Because he has no one else to defend him. And who 
but I should have a right to do so — I, who love him, and 
have loved him since I was a girl — I, who have known ev- 
ery thought of his heart — who am his plighted wife in tho 
sight of heaven ? Oh, Mrs. Breynton, how can you ask me 
to give him up ?” The speech, begun firmly, ended with 
tearful entreaty. Even the storm of invective that had 
risen to Mrs. Brevnton’s lips died away unuttered. It 
might be that for the moment she saw in the pale, droop- 
ing face and clasped hands the likeness of Eleanor’s dead 
mother, with all her struggles and sufferings. The harsh 
voice became a little softer when she said, “ You are blind- 
ed, Eleanor, or you would see that it is for your own good 
I ask this. You do not give up him — he gives up you. 
Nay, do not speak — I say he does. Where is the honor of 
a man who keeps a young girl waiting for him year after 
year ? A worthy lover he is, who talks of his sentimental 
affection, and forsooth says he is too poor to marry, while 
by his own folly he chooses to remain so ! This is how he 
would treat you, until you grow old, and then he would go 
and marry some one younger and richer. It is like men; 
they are all the same !” The old lady paused a moment to 
look at the young creature before her. Eleanor had risen 
and stood by the bedside, not weeping, but composed. 

“Mrs. Breynton,” she said, in a low, quiet tone, “you 
have been ever kind to me, and I am grateful. Besides, 
you are dear to me for your own sake, and for his , whose 
name I will not speak if it offends you. But I can go no 
further. It pains me very much to hear you talk in this 
way. I owe you all respect, but I also owe some to him 
whose wife I have promised to be.” 

“And you will — in spite of all — you will be his wife?” 


THE OGILYIES. 


253 


“Yes !” 

The word was scarcely above a breath, but it said 
enough. Love had given to the timid, geiffcle-hearted girl 
a strength that was able to stand firm against the world. 
To that “ Yes !” there came no answer. It controlled even 
the outburst of Mrs. Breynton’s wrath. She lay silent, un- 
able to remove her eyes from this young girl, so meek and 
yet so resolute — so patient, yet so brave. But, though re- 
strained by this irresistible influence, the storm raged with- 
in until it shook every fibre of the aged frame. It seemed 
as though in her life’s decline Mrs. Breynton was destined 
to feel the vehement passions which in her dull youth and 
frigid middle age had never been awakened. 

Eleanor, startled by her silence, yet drawing from it a 
faint ray of hope, gathered courage. Kneeling down by 
the bedside, she would have taken one of Mrs. Breynton’s 
hands, but they were too tightly clenched together. 

“ Dear friend — my mother’s friend !” she cried, “ do not 
try me so bitterly. If you knew what it costs me to say 
this one word — and yet I can not but say it. How can 1 
give up my own Philip ?” And in the sorrow and strug- 
gle of the moment she spoke to Mrs. Breynton as in her 
maiden timidity she had never spoken to any human be- 
ing. “Has he not been my playfellow, my friend, these 
many years ? Did not you yourself first teach me to love 
him by telling me how good he was, and by bringing us 
constantly together, boy and girl as we were ?” 

“ I did — I did. I wished to atone to poor IsabePs child 
for the wrong done to her mother. Fool that I was, to 
trust the son of such a father !” 

Not hearing, or not noticing the words, Eleanor went on 
with her earnest pleading. 

“How could we help loving one another; or, loving, 
how could we, by your will, break at once through these 
dear ties, and never love each other again ? Mrs. Breyn- 
ton, I owe you much, but I owe Philip more. He chose me ; 
he gave me his true, noble heart, and I will keep it faithful- 
ly and truly. He loves me, he trusts me, and I will never 
forsake him while I live.” 


254 


THE OGILVIES. 


Mrs. Breynton saw her last chance of regaining powei 
fading from her, and yet she dared not speak. Goaded on 
almost to madness, she gazed on that young face, now 
grown serene with the shining of the perfect faith and per* 
feet love which “ casteth out fear.” It did not shrink even 
from those gleaming eyes, wherein the wild fires of stormi- 
est youth contended with the dimness of age. 

“Eleanor Ogilvie,” she said, hoarsely, “ what do you in- 
tend to do with this fortune ?” 

“ To wait until I again meet him who has a right to all 
my love — all my riches, and then, if he so wishes, to make 
both his own.” 

At these words Mrs. Breynton, driven to desperation alike 
by wrath and fear of discovery, snatched blindly at any 
means of keeping asunder, for a time at least, those two to 
whom a few words of heart-confidence would reveal all her 
own machinations. 

“You are mad — deceived,” cried she, vehemently. “How 
do you know that he remembers you still ? What does 
your brother’s letter say ? — that he is gay, prosperous.” 

“ There is nothing in that to pain me. Philip, happy, 
loves me as well as Philip, sorrowful,” she murmured, say- 
ing the last words in a musing tone. 

“ Then why does he not show his love ? Why^ does he 
not come and claim you to share his fortune ? But I tell 
you, Eleanor Ogilvie, you are blinded by this folly. I 
know” — and for the first time her lips shrank not from a 
deliberate lie — “I know more than you do of his selfishness 
and unworthiness. He only waits an excuse to cast you off. 
He has said so.” 

Eleanor shrunk back a little, and a slight pain smote her 
heart. “ Will you tell me — ” 

“No, no, I will not tell you any thing,” hastily said the 
conscience-stricken woman. “They who informed me spoke 
truth, as I firmly believe.” 

“ But I do not — I ought not.” And once more the beau- 
tiful light of confiding love returned to the face of the young 
betrothed. “Who knows Philip Wychnor so well as I? 


THE 0GILVIES. 


255 


Therefore it is I who should trust him most. And I do 
trust him !” 

“Then you will leave your mother’s friend, who would 
have been a mother to you — leave her without a child to 
comfort her old age.” 

“What shall I do — what ought I to do?” cried Elea- 
nor, her gentle heart wrung to the very core by this con- 
flict. 

“Go away — go away. I never wish to see your face 
again !” And the voice rose sharper and sharper. Mrs. 
Breynton lifted herself up in bed, with flashing and out- 
stretched hands, which she shook with a threatening gest- 
ure, as though the malediction which Philip had scarce 
escaped were about to fall on his affianced. 

Eleanor, mute with horror, instinctively moved towards 
the door ; but, on reaching it, she stood irresolute. It was 
one of those crises which sometimes occur in life, when 
right and wrong seem confounded ; when we feel ourselves 
driven blindly along without power to say, “This is the 
true way : I will walk therein, God helping me.” Poor 
Eleanor ! in either course she took, all seemed darkness, 
suffering, and, still more, sin. Strong as she was in her 
faithful devotion to Philip, when she thought of Philip’s 
aunt, she felt almost as if she had done wrong. From an 
impulse more than a settled intent, she laid her hand again 
on the door, paused a moment, and then re-entered the 
chamber. 

Mrs. Breynton was leaning forward with her face on her 
hands ; the storm of passion had spent itself, and tears were 
dropping fast between her poor thin fingers. Eleanor’s 
heart sprang towards the desolate woman with resistless 
tenderness. She put her arms round her ; she laid the aged 
head on her young bosom, just as she had used to rest her 
own mother’s during many a long night of suffering — as 
she had done on that last night until the moment when 
suffering merged into the peace of death. The action 
awoke all these memories like a tide. The orphan felt 
drawn with a fullness of love to her who had been the 


256 


THE OGILVIES. 


friend of the dead, and the motherless and the childlesfe 
clung together in a close embrace. 

“ You will not send me away from you, Mrs. Breynton ?” 

“Never!” was the answer. “And you will stay with 
me, Eleanor, my child; that is, until — No, I can not talk 
about it yet ; but in time — in time — ” 

Mrs. Breynton said no more ; and this was the only ex- 
planation to which they came. Yet Eleanor felt satisfied 
that a change had passed over the mind of Philip’s aunt — 
slight, indeed, but greater than she had ever dared to hope. 
From that night the icy barrier seemed broken down be- 
tween them. Though Mrs. Breynton never spoke of her 
nephew, still she bore at times the chance mention of his 
name ; and often, even after it had been uttered, she would 
regard Eleanor with a vague venderness, and seem on the 
point of saying something which yet never rose to her lips. 
This filled the young girl with happy hope, so that she 
bore patiently the long silence between herself and Philip, 
waiting until her return home should solve all doubt, and 
show him that even this temporary alienation was a sacri- 
fice for his sake, in order that the work of the peacemaker 
might be finished with joy. 

Eleanor never guessed from how much remorse sprang 
the new gentleness which the dean’s widow continually 
showed towards her. After a little longer sojourn abroad, 
Mrs. Breynton began restlessly to long after home, instan- 
cing the necessity for Eleanor’s being at L to look after 

her own little fortune. The young girl prepared gladly 
for the journey, and tried to see in the reason urged only 
an excuse framed by this still haughty spirit, willing and 
yet half-ashamed to make the concession that would give 
so much happiness. And with such diverse feelings did 
Mrs. Breynton and her young companion again set foot in 
L — — , 


THE OGILVIES. 


257 


. CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Most men 

Are cradled into poesy by wrong : 

They learn in suffering what they teach in song. 

Shelley. 

Life is real — life is earnest, 

And the grave is not its goal •, 

4 ‘Dust thou art — to dust returnest,* 

Was not spoken of the soul. — Longfellow. 


“So yom young bridesmaid has really followed youi 
example, and is gone on her honeymoon trip,” said Mrs. 
Pennythorne, as she nervously prepared herself for the 
martyrdom of a drawing-room tete-d-tete with her stylish 
daughter-in-law. This was after the usual Sunday dinner 
— the hebdomadal sacrifice on the family shrine — which its 
new member always considered a “horrid bore.” 

“ Yes, indeed, and has come back again, too,” answered 
Mrs. Frederick, throwing herself on a sofa by the window, 
while the elder Mrs. Pennythorne sat bolt upright by her 
side on one of the frail, comfortless fabrics which her hus- 
band’s omnipotent taste had provided for the drawing- 
room chairs. “ They made a short wedding tour, did 
Hugh and Katharine — Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean ; but 
one can’t get over old habits, and my cousins and I were 
such friends, especially Hugh,” simpered the young bride. 

“ Were you, indeed ? — oh, of course, being relations,” 
absently replied Mrs. Pennythorne. She made the quiet- 
est and most submissive mother-in-law in the world to Isa- 
bella ; indeed, to tell the truth, she was considerably afraid 
of her son’s gay, fashionable wife. “ They seemed both 
very nice young people ; I hope they will be happy,” add- 
ed she, in a vain attempt to converse. 

“ Happy ? Oh, I suppose so ! She is not the best of 
tempers, to be sure ; and I don’t think Hugh would have 
married her if he had not been dragged into it, so to speak. 


258 


THE 0GILVIFS. 


He used to pay me a great deal of attention once.” Mrs. 
Pennythorne opened her eyes a little wider than usual. 
She thought this style of conversation rather odd in her 
son’s wife, but it was, perhaps, the way of fashionable 
young ladies. She merely said “ Indeed !’’ and looked out 
of the window, watching the people of the square going to 
evening service, and listening to the heavy, monotonous 
tone of the solitary bell. 

“ How disagreeable it must be to live near a church !” 
said Isabella. “ I hate that ding-dong, it is so annoying — 
especially when it tolls for a funeral.” 

Mrs. Pennythorne shivered perceptibly. 

“Oh, we have not many funerals here; it is a very 
healthy neighborhood.” There was a silence, during which 
the dull sound of some one coughing feebly was heard in 
the next room. 

“ Can you amuse yourself with a book for a minute or 
two, while I go and speak to Leigh ? I always do so after 
dinner,” said the mother, meekly apologizing. 

“Oh yes! And, by-the-by, that reminds me I have not 
yet asked after Leigh. He is much as usual, I suppose ?” 

“A little better, we think. He likes those drives in 
your pony-chaise so much, and they are sure to do him 
good.” 

“Well, he can have the carriage any morning. I never 
stir out till after luncheon. Only he must not go too far, 
so as to tire out the horses before I want them.” 

“ There is no fear of that. Leigh can not take long 
rides. He does not get strong very fast. The doctor says 
we must not expect it at present. But it is such fine May 
weather now, and he is really improving,” said Mrs. Penny- 
thorne, moving from the room. 

Isabella looked after her, and tossed her head. “None 
are so blind as those who won’t see,” said she to herself. 
Then glancing down at her splendid, gay-tinted satin, 
“ How provoking it will be to put it aside for horrible, un- 
becoming black; and one can’t take to one’s wedding- 
dresses twelve month’s after marriage. What a nuisance 


THE OGILVIES. 


259 


it is — that boy dying !” And during the ten minutes ol 
solitude Mrs. Frederick occupied herself in considering 
whether, considering all things, it would not be advisable 
to give her first evening party at once, without postponing 
it for the usual prior round of bridal entertainments. 

“ One may as well make the most of time, for one never 
knows what may happen,” said the young wife, whose 
whole life of vain heartlessness was a contradiction to the 
moral she drew. Mrs. Pennythorne returned to her seat 
by the window ; and the elder and younger matron tried 
to keep up a desultory talk, broken by two or three ill-con- 
cealed yawns from the latter. 

“ I beg your pardon, but one always gets so stupid at 
this time of the evening — at least I do. I quite hate the 
twilight.” 

“We might shut it out and have candles, only I prom- 
ised Leigh that I would watch for Mr.Wychnor round the 
square : he never misses coming on a Sunday evening, you 
know, and the boy is so glad to see him. Perhaps you 
would not mind waiting a little without lights, just to hu- 
mor poor Leigh ?” observed the mother-in-law, humbly. 

“ Oh dear no ! don’t inconvenience yourself on my ac- 
count,” languidly answered Mrs. Frederick ; and after in- 
wardly resolving to make one last attempt to keep “ that 
nice young Wychnor” by her side in the drawing-room, in- 
stead of suffering him to spend nearly the whole evening, 
as usual, in Leigh’s room, Isabella began to dilate on her 
favorite subject, “my cousins, the Ogilvies” — their great 
wealth and connections — the beautiful villa that Hugh and 
Katharine had taken in the Regent’s Park, and the elegant 
and costly style in which it was furnished. Contented with 
monosyllabic answers, Mrs. Frederick had thus gone on for 
a quarter of an hour, when her mother-in-law interrupted 
her with the information that she must go and tell Leigh 
that Mr.Wychnor was turning the corner of the square. 
Thereupon Isabella smoothed her dress, pulled her ringlets 
out properly, and awaited Mr. Wychnor’s entrance. The 
preparation was vain, for he went at once to Leigh’s room. 


260 


THE OH1LVIES. 


“ It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the 
house of feasting.” And better, far better, to stand face to 
face with the struggling, the sorrowful, nay, even the dy- 
ing, than to dwell entirely amidst a world of outside show. 
More precious is it to trace the earnest throbs of the most 
wounded heart, than to live among those human machines 
to whom existence is one daily round of dullness and fri- 
volity. Looking on these, Youth, with its bursting tide of 
soul and sense, shrinks back aghast : “ Oh, God !” rises the 
prayer, “ let me not be as these ! Rather let my pulses 
swell like a torrent, pour themselves out and cease — let 
heart and brain work their work, even to the perishing of 
both — be my life short like a weaver’s shuttle, but let it be 
a life full, strong, rich — perchance a day only, but one of 
those days of heaven which are as a thousand years !” 

When Philip Wychnor came into Leigh’s room the boy 
had fallen asleep — as he often did in the twilight. He 
roused himself, however, to give his friend a welcome ; but 
his mother and Philip persuaded him to rest again until 
tea. Just then the sharp call of “ Cillie, my dear,” resound- 
ed through the house, and Mrs. Penny thorne vanished. Phil- 
ip Wychnor sat in the growing darkness, holding the feeble 
hand in his, and listening to the breathing of the sleeper. 
It is a solemn thing, this vigil beside those over whom, 
day after day, the shadow of death is creeping, whom we 
seem to be ourselves leading — walking step by step with 
them to the very entrance of the dark valley. Strange it 
is to think that there we must leave them — needing our 
guidance and support no more ; that in one day, one hour, 
the poor frail ones, who have for months clung helplessly 
to us almost for very existence, will be bodiless spirits, 
strong, glorious, mighty ! looking down, it may be, with 
divine pity on our weak humanity. Then, perchance, with 
a power the limits of which are yet unrevealed — those to 
whom we ministered may become themselves glad minis- 
trants to us. As the young man, in all the strength of his 
youth, sat beside that scarcely-breathing form, where clay 
and spirit seemed linked together by a thread so fine that 


THE OGILVIES. 


26 i 


each moment might dissever them for eternity, he felt a 
strange awe come over him. 

There are many phases which the human soul must go 
through before it can attain even that approximation to the 
divine which is possible on earth. We cling to prop after 
prop ; we follow longingly whichever of earth’s beautiful 
and blessed things seems most to realize that perfect ideal 
which we call happiness. Of these joys, the dearest, the 
truest, the most satisfying, is that which lifts us out of our- 
selves, and unites us in heart and soul — ay, and intellect 
too, for the spirit must find its mate to make the union per- 
fect — with some other human being. This blessed bond 
we call Love. But the chances of fortune come between 
us and our desire ; the light passes, and we go on our way 
in darkness. There are times when we must stand alone, 
and see earth’s deepest and most real joys float by like 
shadows ! Alas ! we can but stretch out our arms toward 
that Infinite, w r hich alone is able to fill the longings of an 
immortal spirit. Then with our wounded souls lying na- 
ked and open before the Beholder of all, we look yearning- 
ly toward the eternal and divine life, complete, unchange- 
able, and cry with solemn, thankful voice, “ O God, thy 
fullness is sufficient for me ; O God, thy love is an all- 
boundless store.” 

Through this portion of his inward life had Philip pass- 
ed. But, while learning the deepest mystery of all, he also 
gained other knowledge, other power. It seemed as though 
his intellect had sprung up, strong and mighty, from the 
ashes of the fire which had consumed his heart. Perhaps 
the same would be the secret history of almost every poet- 
soul, whose words go forth like lightning; man heeding 
not the stormy cloud and tempest from whence it leaps 
forth. Philip’s world-ideal had been the woman he loved ; 
when that became a dream, as he now deemed it was, all 
human love seemed to pass out of that world with her. 
The heart’s life shut out — the soul’s life began. 

Within his spirit there dawned a new energy — an irre« 
eistible power to work, to will, to do. The individual sense 


262 


THE O GIL VIES. 


was merged in the universal ; he felt the deep fountain of 
his genius springing up within him. After a season of 
wrestling with that strong agony of crushed love — which, 
thank God ! no human being can know any more than 
once — he arose, ready to fight the glorious battle, to begin 
the blessed toil of those whom Heaven sends as lights unto 
the world. 

He had been called an author. How he became one. 
He joined that little band of true brothers to whom author- 
ship is a sacred thing ; a lay priesthood, which, wearing the 
garb of ordinary fraternity, carries beneath it evermore an 
inward consecration. Philip wrote not with the haughty 
assumption of an apostle among men : sometimes in his 
writings the deepest truth, the purest lore lay coiled, ser- 
pent-like, beneath garlands of flowers. But he never for- 
got his mission, though the word, often so falsely assumed, 
had not once passed his lips. God’s truest messenger is 
sometimes not the Pharisee who harangues in the temple, 
but the Publican who passes unnoticed by the wayside. 

Yet Philip Wychnor had his share of honor and repute. 
Every day his fame was growing ; but there was one dif- 
ference between his present life and his past. The work 
itself brought pleasure — at least that sense of duty fulfilled 
which is likest pleasure ; the mere fame brought none. He 
had no care whether it came or not. For two ends only is 
renown precious — for ambition’s sake and for love’s. Phil- 
ip had neither ; life to him seemed now made, not for hap- 
piness, but for worthy toil. He stood in the world’s vine- 
yard, not as a joyful gatherer of fruit, but as a laborer, pa- 
tient and active, yet looking toward the day’s close as to- 
ward its chiefest joy. 

Was, then, this brave heart, worthily struggling w T ith 
and surmounting fate, utterly without memories of the 
sweet past? Was it grown so indifferent that oblivion 
brought no pain ? Let many a fearful hour of suffering — 
in the dead of night, at intervals in the day’s toil, or in sea- 
sons of good fortune wherein there was no sharer, and of 
fame become all joyless now — let these tell that the young 


THE OGILVIES. 


263 


man now mourned over his buried dream. Perchance this 
sorrow oppressed him even when on this night he sat in 
the darkness beside the sick boy. Leigh’s deep sleep left 
Philip’s thoughts that liberty of range which is bliss to the 
happy — to the suffering, or those who have suffered, torture 
indeed. The young man sighed heavily many times. 

“ Are you unhappy, Philip ?” whispered a faint voice, and 
the damp fingers he held twined feebly round his own. 

“ My dear Leigh ! I thought you were asleep.” 

“No, not for some minutes; but I fancied you were, un- 
til those deep sighs came. We never sigh when we are 
asleep, you know.” 

“Very seldom: there is no sorrow in sleep,” murmured 
Philip, as if his words had a deeper sense than their appar- 
ent one. He had somehow caught a little of this habit of 
twofold speech from his constant associate and friend, Da- 
vid Drysdale. 

“ What are you saying about sorrow ?” asked Leigh. 
“ What have you been thinking of? Not that old grief of 
which you never speak ; and which, when I found out that 
it was in your heart, you said I could not understand ? I 
can understand many things better now ; perhaps I might 
this. And you often say I do you good at times.” 

“ Always — always, my boy ! Only let us talk of some- 
thing else now. Be content, Leigh ; indeed I am so too, as 
content as one can be in this sorrowful world.” 

“ Is it so sorrowful, this world of yours ?” 

“ Why do you say ‘ yours ,’ Leigh ?” 

“ Because — because — you know why, Philip and the 
voice became feebler, more solemn. There was no answer; 
Philip could not breathe the lie of hope to the spirit which 
seemed already spreading its pure wings. Both were silent 
for a while, but the mute hand-clasp between them appear- 
ed to say “I go !” “Yea, thou goest, blessed one!” Leigh 
was the first who spoke. “ I am not afraid, scarcely sorry 
—and yet, perhaps— Oh, Philip ! if you knew how often in 
the old times I wished — earnestly wished, that it might be 
thus with me — that I might get away from that dull life 


264 


THE OGILVIES. 


of torment. And now, when the wish comes true, I some- 
times have thought that I should like to stay a little lon- 
ger, that I might do something to atone for these eighteen 
wasted years. You would not think me thus old, childish 
as I am ? yet at times I feel so weary, so worn, it might 
have been a life of eighty years which I lay down. Then 
again, even when my body is weakest, my soul feels so clear 
and strong that I shrink from this coming quiet — this deep 
rest.” 

“ Not all rest,” answered Philip, softly. “ God never 
meant it so ; He, the Creator, the Sustainer, knows no idle 
repose. Neither shall we, His servants. We shall work 
His will — how, we can not tell, but we shall do it, and re- 
joice in the doing. Think, Leigh, how glorious to pass from 
weakness to strength — from suffering to action ; perhaps to 
be Heaven’s messengers throughout the wide universe; 
feeling nearer Him, because, in one measure, we share His 
divinest attribute — that of dispensing good.” 

In the darkness, Philip could not see the face of the al- 
most dying boy, but he felt the hand which he still held 
drawn nearer to its fellow, and both clasped, as in prayer, 
his own still between them. It seemed that even then 
Leigh could not relinquish the hand which had brought 
light into his darkness, and guided him on until he stood 
at the death-portal, looking thereon calmly and without 
fear. 

“ This is so happy to hear !” Leigh said, after a pause. 
“Philip, your words are like an angel’s — they always were 
so to me ; and some time — not now, but you know when 
— will you tell my mother all this ? and say how it was 
that I never spoke thus to her, because she could not bear 
it. But you will remember it all, and it will sound as if I 
said it — not in my poor, weak, childish words, but with the 
voice which I shall have then.” Philip promised. A little 
while longer they talked mostly in this strain, and then the 
mother came in with a light. 

“How well Leigh looks to night !” she said. And truly 
there was a strange spiritual beauty over the boy’s face. 


THE OGILVIES. 


265 


“ He seems so quiet and happy ! You always do him good, 
Mr.Wychnor.” 

And then through the open drawing-room door came 
Mrs. Frederick’s titter, and her husband’s loud chatter, 
while above all sounded Mr. Pennythorne’s decisive tone. 

“ Cillie, my dear, don’t forget to tell that excellent young 
man that we can not do without him any longer; send 
your ever-grumbling boy to bed, and ask Mr.Wychnor to 
come into the drawing-room.” 

“Yes, do go, Philip,” whispered Leigh; “it will please 
my father — he thinks so much of you now.” He did in- 
deed ; for Mr. Pennythorne was a very Ghebir in his way 
— he always turned worshipingly towards the rising sun. 

Philip assented — as he would have done to any wish of 
poor Leigh’s. After an affectionate good-night, and a 
promise to come next day, he passed from the sick boy’s 
room, the solemn antechamber of death, into the world — • 
the hollow, frivolous world — of Mr. Pennythorne. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Many waters can not quench love, neither can the floods drown it. . . . 
For love is strong as death : jealousy as cruel as the grave. — Solomon. 

Let us follow Wychnor where his presence was so ener- 
getically demanded. In the drawing-room of Blank Square 
no one could be more abundantly welcomed than he. Mr. 
Pennythorne now delighted to honor his “ very clever 
young friend,” and told to every body the story of Philip’s 
first coming to London with the introduction to himself 
He would probably repeat the same, with additions, for the 
benefit and instruction of every young man whom he chose 
to patronise for the next ten years. 

“Happy to see you, my dear Norwych — Wychnor,! 
mean,” said Mr. Pennythorne, correcting himself, since the 
amusing sobriquet which he had conferred on the poor tu- 
tor was hardly respectful enough to the rising author. 
“ Here we are all striving to get through the evening : Fred 
18 


266 


THE OGILYIES. 


is more sleepy than ever, and my fair daughter-in-law evi 
dently thinking she has entered into the dullest family 
party of the three kingdoms.” 

“ Oh dear no, Mr. Pennythorne,” disclaimed Isabella, who 
got on extremely well with her husband’s father. She was 
treated by him with great consideration, through the def- 
erential mockery of which she was not acute enough to 
penetrate. She really liked him the best of the family, and 
pronounced him to be “ a most amusing old fellow.” “ I 
assure you, Mr.Wychnor, we have been laughing amazing- 
ly. Mr. Pennythorne is so droll,” said she, striving by this 
address to bring the young man in closer approximation to 
her chair. But Philip only made some ordinary reply, and 
sat down at the other end of the table, considering what 
excuse he could frame to make his stay to-night in this in- 
teresting family circle as brief as possible. 

Mr. Pennythorne led the conversation, as he always did 
— shooting his small popguns of wit to the infinite amuse- 
ment of Mrs. Frederick, who was nevertheless considerably 
annoyed that all the attentions paid her came from her 
elderly papa-in-law, and none from his young guest. Phil- 
ip sat more silent and quiet than usual until Mrs. Penny- 
thorne came, and then he rose up to secure her an arm- 
chair. 

“ He never did that for me in his life, the bear,” thought 
Isabella. It was, perhaps, rather a fault in Philip’s man- 
ners that his courtesies and his feelings always went to- 
gether in their expression. 

“ How does Leigh seem now ?” asked he, addressing the 
mother, who was so accustomed to the young man’s kind- 
ly attentions that she took them with less nervousness and 
shyness from him than any one else, and requited the re- 
spect he showed her, to which, poor woman ! she was little 
used, with a most grateful regard, 

“ Leigh is really better to-night ; you have quite bright 
ened him up, Mr.Wychnor, for he was so dull all day.” 

“Pray choose some more interesting subject, Cillie, my 
dear,” sharply interposed Mr. Pennythorne. “ Leigh thinks 


THE 0GILVIES. 


267 


far too much of himself already ; and you coax him into 
imagining himself ill, because it looks interesting. That is 
always the way with women and mothers, but it will not 
do in my family. Of course, nothing of consequence is the 
matter with Leigh.” The father spoke quickly, almost 
angrily ; but there was an uneasy restlessness in his man- 
ner, which Philip had often discerned of late when the hoy 
was mentioned, and the piteous look of Mrs. Pennythorne 
checked the answer that was rising indignantly to the 
young man’s lips. There was a constrained silence. Then 
Mrs. Frederick, quitting her husband, who was dropping 
fast to sleep again — his usual habit of proving that Sun- 
day was indeed a day of rest — made another effort to draw 
Philip into conversation. 

“I was quite anxious to meet you to-night, Mr. Wych^ 
nor, as I have a message to you from a friend of yours, my 
cousin” — Philip turned a little — “ my cousin, Hugh Ogil- 
vie.” The remark only brought an assenting bow, and a 
hope, very laconically expressed, that Mr. Ogilvie was quite 
well. 

“ Certainly ; how could he be otherwise with a young 
bride to take care of him ?” tittered Isabella ; “ and, by-the- 
by, the message comes conjointly from her, which must be 
very flattering, as all the men think my cousin Katharine 
the most bewitching creature in the world. But perhaps 
you have met her ?” 

“I have,” answered Philip. He remembered but too 
well how and where was that meeting. 

“Oh! of course you did — that night, at Mrs. Lancaster’s. 
A delightful party, was it not ? though no one then thought 
how soon my nice little bridesmaid would become a bride. 
Well, Mr. Wychnor, she and her husband were inquiring 
after you the other day, and desired me to say how happy 
they will be to see you at the Regent’s Park. They have 
the sweetest villa in the world, and are, or ought to be, as 
happy as two doves in a cage.” Philip bowed again, and 
muttered some acknowledgment of the “ kind invitation.” 

“There never was such a stupid young man,” thought 


268 


THE OGILVIES. 


Isabella ; adding aloud, “ Hugh told me also to say that 
shortly they expected a visit from his sister Eleanor. He 
says you know her?” Another silent assent ; but no deep- 
er pallor could show the icy coldness that crept through 
every fibre of Philip’s frame. Sudden delicious trem- 
blings, quick changes of color, are the tokens of love’s 
hopeful dawn ; love’s sorrowful after-life knows none of 
these. Philip sat still; he would have “died and made no 
sign.” 

“The fellow is positively rude — he might be made of 
stone,” muttered the young wife, as she turned indignantly 
away, and relieved her feelings by pulling the hair of her 
sleeping husband with a pretty gamesomeness that made 
her father-in-law laugh. 

“Does the light annoy you, Mr. Wychnor ? This cam- 
phene is always too dull or too bright,” said Mrs. Penny- 
thorne. “ Shall I move the lamp, if it pains your eyes ?” 

“Oh no, not at all — that is, it does a little,” Philip an- 
swered, hastily removing the hand with which he had been 
shading his face. “My eyes are weak. I think I sit up 
too late and work too much.” 

“You do not look quite well, indeed and Mrs. Penny- 
thorne regarded him with an almost motherly gaze. “ You 
should invariably go to bed at eleven, as I always told 
poor Leigh.” Here she checked a sigh, and glanced fear- 
fully to her husband. He was performing a few practical 
jokes on his drowsy eldest-born, to the extreme delight of 
that son’s wife, who treated her spouse with about as much 
respect, and not half as much attention, as she showed to 
her pet spaniel. 

“ I will come and see Leigh soon. And perhaps I had 
better follow your kind advice, Mrs. Penny thorne ; so I will 
bid you good-night at once,” said Philip, rising. Here, how- 
ever, Mr. Pennythorne put in his veto. “ What ! running 
away so soon? Nonsense, my dear young friend. Sit 
down again. Cillie, ring for the supper at once.” Cer- 
tainly, with all his shortcomings, Pierce Pennythorne never 
failed in hospitality. But Philip resisted successfully and 


THE OGILVIES. 


269 


made his adieux. He had gained the hall, when Mr. Pen- 
ny thorne summoned him back. 

“ There was something I wanted to say to you, only the 
lively and amusing conversation of my gifted daughter-in- 
law here quite put it out of my head. Pray, Mr.Wychnor, 
among the numberless invitations which must throng upon 
a gentleman of your standing, are you disengaged on Thurs- 
lay?” Philip said he was. 

“ Then will you dine here ? In fact, I want you to meet 
a particular friend of mine, a very talented young man — 
immense fortune — estates here, there, every where and 
Mr. Penny thorne nodded his head to the four points of the 
compass, at which Frederick winked slyly — his usual cus- 
tom to signify that his revered parent was drawing the 
long-bow. 

“ I should be most happy, but — ” 

“I will take no buts, my dear Wychnor. I want you 
particularly, as my friend is thinking of entering the House, 
and wishes to stand for a borough near that worthy old 

city of cats and canons, L . You, of course, having 

lived there, as you once mentioned, know all about the 
place, and can give him the information he requires. Pray 
do us the favor.” 

“ I shall be glad to serve any friend of yours, Mr. Penny- 
thorne,” said Philip, longing to escape. 

“ Then we may expect you. Indeed, you will be of im- 
mense service to my friend, if you can tell him the state of 

politics and parties in shire. He wishes to settle in 

England, but he knows not a jot about English affairs, and 
is only just come to town from a long residence on the Con- 
tinent. You’ll like him very much — there is not a more 
perfect gentleman any where than Mr. Paul Lynedon.” 

“ Paul Lynedon !” echoed Philip. 

“ Yes ; do you know the name ?” 

“ I have heard it. But I am keeping you standing in 
the hall. Good evening, Mr. Pennythorne.” 

“ Good evening. Remember — Thursday, at six.” The 
young man muttered some answer about being “ v*»ry hap- 


270 


THE OGILVIES. 


py,” that white lie of society ! But Philip hardly knew 
what he said or did. When he had fairly quitted the house 
and its atmosphere of torture for the cool night air, he 
leaned against the railings, trembling all over. 

Paul Lynedon in London ! Eleanor coming shortly ! It 
was all as plain as light. If not married, they were cer- 
tainly about to be. This truth came as the only possible 
answer to his letter— to another wild, imploring letter he 
had written since. The only reply to both was silence. 
Then his manhood took up arms, and he wrote no more. 
He believed, or tried to believe, that he had lost her. But, 
now meeting the tangible fact, it caused him to writhe be- 
neath an almost insupportable agony — an agony which he 
had supposed was deadened and seared within him. To 
meet these happy ones face to face ! To be called upon to 
serve the man who had won his heart’s treasure — the love 
of Eleanor Ogilvie ! 

He could not do it. He would leave London — he would 
hide himself out of their sight; and in some lonely place 
he would pray Heaven to comfort him, and to cast out from 
his riven heart the very ashes of this bitter love. He 
thought he had trodden it down with his firm will, his pa- 
tience, his proud sense of duty ; and yet here it was, burst- 
ing up afresh in torturing and burning flames ! He wres- 
tled with it; he sped on with rapid strides through the 
loneliest streets ; he bared his head, that the fresh May 
breeze might pierce with loving coolness into his brain — 
and yet he was half-maddened still ! 

It is a fearful thing — this gathering up of the love of 
boyhood, youth, and manhood into one absorbing passion, 
which is life or death. Men in general rarely know it ; the 
sentiment comes to them in successive and various forms 
— a dream of romance and poetry, an intoxication of sense, 
a calm, tender esteem; but when all these feelings are 
merged into one — felt through life for one object only — 
then, what woman’s devotion, faithful and tender though 
it be, is like the love of man ? 

Philip reached his home utterly exhausted in body and 


THE OGILVIES. 


271 


mind. His brain seemed flooded with a dull, heavy pain, 
and yet he must lie down and try to make it calm, ready 
for a long day of labor on the morrow. He must forget 
the real in the ideal — he must write on ! No matter what 
were his own heart-tortures, he must sit down and calm- 
ly analyze the throbbings of the wild pulse of humanity as 
displayed in the world of imagination. Perhaps both lives, 
that of brain and heart, would unconsciously mingle into 
one, and men would marvel at the strange truth to nature 
— not knowing that every ideal line had been written with 
real throes of agony, and that each word had gleamed be- 
fore his eyes as though his soul had inscribed it with a 
lightning-pen. Poor Philip ! Heaven only knows through 
what martyr-fires souls like thine ascend to immortal fame ! 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Go not away ! Oh, leave me not alone ! 

I yet would see the light within thine eyes ; 

I yet would hear thy voice’s heavenly tone ; 

Oh, leave me not, whom most on earth I prize ! 

Go not away ! yet ah ! dark shades I see 

Creep o’er thy brow — thou goest ; but give thy hand ! 

Must it be so ? Then go ! I follow thee 

Unto the Silent Land. — Fredrika Bremer. 

So, life is loss, and death felicitie ! — Spenser. 

In the morning Philip Wychnor was laboring as usual 
at his daily work ; for it was work — real work — though he 
loved it well. He applied himself to it day after day, not 
waiting for inspiration, as few writers can afford to do, but 
sedulously training his mind to its duties, until he roamed 
among the beautiful regions of imagination like st man who 
wanders in his own pleasant garden, having first taken the 
proper measure of walking to its gate and bringing the 
key. 

Philip on this day began his work with a desperate en- 
ergy. He could not stay musing — he dared not; he fled 
from the spectre that memory conjured up. Thought bat- 


272 


THE OGILVIES. 


tied against thought. He worked his brain almost to suf- 
fering, that he might deaden the pain which gnawed at his 
heart. Nor was this the first time he had need to be 
thankful for that blessed dream-life, that second existence, 
which brings oblivion for the sorrows of the real world. 
A space since, and we pitied the poor toiler in literature, 
obliged to rack his tortured brain in despite of inward 
troubles. We look at him now, and see how he grows 
calm and brave-hearted, as, by the power of a strong will, 
he passes from his own small world of personal suffering 
into the grand world wherein the author sits godlike, form- 
ing as it were out of nothing new heavens and a new earth. 
Shall we pity this true man, who stands nearer to the Heav- 
enly Maker than other men, because he also can create ? 
Rather let us behold him with reverence — almost with 
envy — for he drinks of the truest, holiest Lethe, where self 
is swallowed up in the universal. If at times the shadow 
of his own bitter thought is thrown across the wave, it ap- 
pears there in an image so spiritualized that he can look on 
it without pain. In the deep calm of those pure waters, it 
only seems like a light cloud between him and heaven. 

When Philip had written for a few hours there came a 
message from the Pennythornes — or, rather, from Mrs. 
Penny thorne — saying that Leigh felt so much better, and 
longed for a drive with his dear friend Mr.Wychnor. The 
mother could not go with Leigh herself, and could trust 
him to no one but Philip, whom she entreated to come to 
the Square at once. This was repugnant enough to the 
young man. He would fain fly from every place where he 
might hear the sound of Paul Lynedon’s name. And yet, 
poor Leigh ! At the thought of him all these earth-feel- 
ings grew -dim; they melted away into nothing before the 
awful shadow of Death. Philip laid aside his work, and 
was soon by the side of the sick boy. 

“ How good of you to come ! But you are always good,” 
said Leigh. 

“ Indeed he is ! I can not tell what we should do 
without Mr.Wychnor,” thankfully cried Mrs. Penny thorne. 


THE OGILVIES. 


273 


Philip pressed the hands of both, but did not speak. They 
little thought what deep emotion struggled in his heart — 
that poor torn heart — which, still madly loving, found it- 
self alone and unloved. Yet their few words fell upon it 
like balm : it was sweet to feel that even now he was of 
use, and precious to some one in the wide, desolate world. 

“ Leigh may take a little longer drive to-day, for Mrs. 
Frederick does not want the carriage. I wish I were go 
ing with you both,” sighed the mother ; “ but Mr. Penny- 
thorne does not like being left alone when he is writing.” 

“ Cillie ! Gillie ! are you going to stay in Leigh’s room 
all day?” resounded from the study door. Poor Mrs.Pen- 
nythorne cast a hopeless glance at Philip, hastily kissed her 
boy, and disappeared in a moment. Leigh looked after her 
wistfully. “ I wish my father would let her stay with me 
a little more. She would like it now, and — afterward ! 
But she is a good, dear mother, and she knows I think so. 
Be sure you tell her that I did, Philip.” Wychnor pressed 
the boy’s hand : it was a strange and touching thing, this 
calm mingling of death with life in Leigh’s thoughts and 
words. He was silent a minute, and then went on in a 
cheerful tone, “ You must let me remain out a good while 
to-day, I feel so strong ; and perhaps I might stay a little 
later, to watch the sunset. I never can see it from my 
room, you know, which seems rather hard, now the even- 
ings are so beautiful and spring-like.” 

Philip soothed him as an elder brother might have done, 
and promised all, provided he felt strong enough. Then 
he took Leigh in his arms like a child, and carried him 
down stairs to the gay carriage. What different occu- 
pants were the fluttering, fashionable young wife, and the 
poor sick boy, who lay half buried in cloaks and cushions ! 
Yet Leigh lifted up his head with a cheerful look when 
Mrs. Pennythorne appeared at a window to give her part- 
ing nod as they drove away. Philip saw the bright loving 
smile that passed between mother and son — he thought of 
it afterward many a time. 

“Now, where shall we go?” was the first question pro* 


274 


THE OGILVIES. 


posed, as they drove along the intermediate Kensington 
High Street. 

Leigh pleaded for some quiet road : he wanted to go far 
out into the country, to that beautiful lane which runs 
along by the river-side at Chiswick. He had been there 
once at the beginning of his illness, and had often talked 
of the place since. It haunted him, he said, with its over- 
hanging trees, and the river-view T breaking in between them 
— its tiny wavelets all sparkling in the sun. He knew it 
would look just the same this calm, bright May afternoon. 
So accordingly they went thither. It was one of those 
spring days when the earth seems to rest from her joyful 
labor of budding and blossoming, and to be dreaming of 
summer. The birds in the trees — the swans in the water 
— the white clouds in the sky — were alike still ; and upon 
all things had fallen the spell of a blessed silence — a silence 
full of happiness, hope, and love. “ Happiness, hope, love” 
— what words, what idle words they would sound, unto 
the two who were passing slowly under the shadow of the 
trees ! Oh Earth, beautiful, cruel mother, how canst thou 
smile with a face so fair when sorrow or death is on thy 
children ! But the earth answers softly, “ I smile with a 
calm and changeless smile, to tell my frail children that if 
in me, made but for their use, is such ever renewed life and 
joy, shall it not be so wdth them ? And even while they 
gaze upon me, I pour into their hearts my deep peace !” 
It was so with Philip and Leigh. They sat silent, hand in 
hand, and looked on this beautiful scene : from both, the 
bitterness passed away — the bitterness of life, and that of 
death. Which was the greater ? 

On the bridge at Kew, Leigh spoke. He begged that 
the carriage might rest a moment to let him look at the 
sunset, which was very lovely. He had lifted himself up, 
and the large brown eyes seemed drinking in all the beau- 
ty that was in land, river, and sky — they rested longest 
there. Then they turned to meet Philip’s : that mute gaze 
between the two was full of solemn meaning. 

“Are you content?” whispered Philip. 


THE OGILVIES. 


275 


“Yes, quite : now let us go home.” Leigh’s eyes closed, 
and his voice grew faint. 

“You seem tired,” said the other, anxiously. 

“Yes, a little. Take me home soon, will you, Philip?” 
His head drooped on the young man’s shoulder heavily — 
so heavily, that Philip signed to the coachman to drive on 
at his utmost speed. Then he put his arm round the boy, 
who lay with closed eyes, his white cheek looking gray and 
sunken in the purple evening light. Once Philip spoke, 
almost trembling lest no answer should come. 

“Are you quite easy, dear Leigh?” The eyes opened 
and the lips parted with a faint smile. “Yes, thank you, 
only weary ; I can hardly keep awake ; but I must till I 
have seen my mother.” And still the dying head sank 
heavier on Philip’s shoulder, and the hands which he drew 
in his to warm them were already growing damp and rigid. 
He sat with this solemn burden in his arms, and the car- 
riage drove homeward until they entered the Square. The 
mother stood at the door. 

“ Take her away, for God’s sake — only one minute,” whis- 
pered Philip to the servant ; but she had sprung already to 
the carriage. 

“ Leigh ! — how is my darling Leigh ?” Her voice seem- 
ed to pierce even through the shadows of another world 
and reach the dying boy : he opened his eyes and smiled 
tenderly upon her. 

“Leigh is tired — almost asleep,” said Philip, hastily. 
“Take the cushion, Mrs.Pennythorne, and I will carry him 
in.” She obeyed without a word, but her face grew dead- 
ly white, and her hands trembled. When the boy was 
placed, as he seemed to wish, in his mother’s arm-chair, she 
came and knelt before him, looking into his face. There 
was a shadow there. She saw it, and felt that the time was 
come when not even the mother could stand between her 
child and Death. Philip thought she would have shrieked 
or fainted, but she did neither. She only gazed into the 
dim eyes with a wildly beseeching gaze. 

“ Mother — you will let me go ?” murmured Leigh. She 


276 


THE OGILVIES. 


drew a long sigh, as if repressing an agony so terrible that 
the struggle was like that of a soul parting, and then said, 
“Yes, my darling !” 

He smiled — what a heaven is there in the happy smile 
of the dying ! and suffered her fond ministering hands — 
unwilling even yet to give up their long tendance — to un- 
fasten the cloak and put the wine to his lips. Then she sat 
down beside him, laid his head on her bosom, and awaited 
— oh mighty strength of a mother’s love ! — awaited, tear- 
less and calm, the passing away of the life which she had 
given. 

“ He is quite content — quite happy — he told me so,” Phih 
ip whispered in her ear. She turned rolind one moment 
with a startled air : “ Yes, yes, I know. Hush !” And she 
bent down again over her child, whose faint lips seemed 
trying to frame, scarcely louder than a sigh, the last word, 
“ Mother r 

Then there fell over the room a solemn silence, long and 
deep, in the midst of which the spirit passed. They only 
knew that it was so when, as the moon rose, the pale spirit- 
ual light fell on the face of the dead boy, still pillowed on 
the mother’s breast. She turned and looked upon it with- 
out a cry or moan, so beautiful, so heavenly was it ! At 
that moment, had they put to her the question of old, “ Is 
it well with the child?” she would have answered like the 
Shunammite, “It is well !” 

“God help her!” murmured Philip Wychnor, as she at 
last suffered him to take the beloved form from her arms, 
and carry it, for the last time, to “ Leigh’s room.” Ere the 
young man left the chamber — once the scene of suffering 
and pain, now of holy peace and death-slumber — he looked 
long and earnestly at the white, still image before him. 
Then he turned away, and thought no more of the dead 
likeness of what poor Leigh had been, but of the now free, 
glorious, rejoicing soul. 

As he passed down stairs, a quick, loud knock sounded 
at the door : it was the father’s, who knew not that he 
came to a house of death. 


THE OGILVIES. 


277 


“ Cillie, my dear ! Eh, what’s this ? Where’s Mrs. Pen- 
nythorne ?” he said, in his sharpest tones, as he missed the 
customary meeting at the door. Philip advanced, and 
drew the old man into the parlor. 

“ Ah ! Mr.Wychnor : quite a surprise to see you, but de- 
lighted,” he began, in his usual manner. “ Cillie ! Where 
can she be ? Cillie, my dear !” Then, startled by Philip’s 
silence, he stopped. 

“ Mrs. Pennythorne is up stairs,” the young man said, in 
a low and hesitating tone. 

“ Eh ? oh, of course she is — with Leigh.” 

“No; Leigh does not need her now. Mr. Pennythorne, 
your son is dead !” But the next moment he repented for 
thus abruptly communicating the tidings. 

The old man caught at him with an incredulous gesture. 
“ You — you fancy things — they always did — ” 

Philip looked at him without answering. 

“ Oh, my God !” He fell into a chair, speechless. 

Philip had shrunk with disgust from the stern, unloving 
father of the living, who, willfully self-deceived, had led his 
own son to the sacrifice, and looked on with hard and cruel 
eyes; but no human heart could have turned away unpity- 
ing from the agonized, remorse-stricken father of the dead. 
For many minutes did the old man sit there immovable. 
His grief was so terrible in its pent-up, stony strength, that 
Philip dared not breathe a word of consolation. At last 
Mr. Pennythorne raised his head, though without looking 
up, and murmured the name of his wife. 

“Shall I call her?” 

“Yes.” 

She came in that instant. She had been waiting at the 
door, not daring to approach him even then. But now she 
drew T near to her husband — woman-like, wife-like. She laid 
his head on her shoulder, and for the first time in his life 
he clang to her — feeling that she, in all her weakness, was 
yet stronger than he. 

“ Come with me, Pierce,” she whispered, and led him 
away, he following her as unresisting as a child. 


278 


THE OGILVIES. 


What passed between the desolate parents none of the 
household knew. They remained shut up together in their 
own room for hours — nay, for days — all the time that the 
dead lay in the little chamber above. They saw no one — 
at least he did not — though Mrs. Pennythorne passed in 
and out now and then, to give any needful orders. She 
did all with a newborn firmness and energy marvelous to 
witness. Philip Wychnor, who once or twice saw her for 
a few moments when she descended to the silent, darkened 
parlor below, unconsciously spoke to her with a strange 
reverence and tenderness, as to one of those women who 
are God’s angels upon earth. 

In a few days the burial-train passed from the door, its 
stately array — vain mockery ! — moving down the Square 
in the bright sunshine ; and the house of the Pennythornes 
was childless evermore. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The tongue was intended for a divine organ, but the devil often plays 
upon it. — Jeremy Taylor. 

How much have cost us the evils that have never happened ! — Jeffer- 
son. 

. . . Quiet thyself until time try the truth, and it may be thy fear 

will prove greater than thy misfortune. — Southwell. 

“Are you at home this evening, Wychnor?” said a friend- 
ly voice, when Philip sat leaning on his desk in a thought- 
fill mood. He looked up, and saw at the door the face of 
old David Drysdale. 

“ Certainly — to you always, my good friend.” 

“ But I mean, is there any need for that amusing fiction 
at which society smilingly connives ? Is your mind really 
‘ at home’ as well as your body ? Are you quite disen- 
gaged ?” 

“Yes, I have done my work for to-day. Pray come in, 
Mr. Drysdale, and be very welcome.” 

“Have you more welcomes than one to give away?” 


THE OGILVIES. 


279 


pursued Drysdale, still holding the door-handle; “because 
I am not alone.” 

“ Any friend of yours I shall be happy to see,” began 
Philip, in the usual conventional form. 

“Nonsense!” interrupted the old man; “I thought I 
had cured you of that fashion of polite speaking. Besides, 
friends are about as plentiful as blackberries in London — 
I may say that with great truth, you know. This gentle- 
man is only an acquaintance of mine, who wishes to be- 
come one of yours.” 

“ And a little more than that, I hope, in time,” continued 
a voice behind. It was so sweetly modulated — so perfect- 
ly the tone and accent of that rare personage, a gentleman 
— that Philip looked eagerly to the speaker, who added, 
“Shall I introduce myself, Mr. Wychnor, as my friend here 
seems rather to disown me ?” And that beautiful, irresist- 
ible smile broke over his face, making one forget that it 
was not strictly handsome. “ My name is Lynedon — Paul 
Lynedon.” 

Philip had guessed it before, yet he could not suppress 
a start. Once again there came that torturing pain ; the 
blood seemed ice-bound in his heart, and then flowed back 
again in fire. He must be calm. He was so. The next 
moment he forced himself to utter acknowledgment and 
welcome to the man whom Eleanor loved. 

He could not wonder that she did so, now. He looked 
on ttie finely-moulded form, wdiere to natural grace was 
added all that ease of movement and courtly elegance 
which polished society bestows ; the intellectual head, 
which had, besides character, a winning sweetness, given 
by its only perfect feature, a mouth and chin most exqui- 
site in shape and expression. And then the voice, that in- 
dex of the heart, how musical it was ! Philip’s eye and 
ear took in all this ; and even while a sense of self-abase- 
ment made his heart die within him, he felt glad — thank- 
ful. She had not cast away her love upon one mean and 
unworthy ; her choice was not such as to lower her in his 
eyes — he could bear any thing but that ! 


280 


THE OGILVIES. 


“I have been wishing for this pleasure some time, Mi\ 
Wychnor,” said Paul, with that mixture of frankness and 
courtesy which formed the great charm of his manner; 
“you seem any thing but unknown to me — not merely 
from your writings, which I will not be so rude as to dis- 
course upon here — ” 

“ Right, Mr. Lynedon,” put in David Drysdale ; “ it is 
very annoying when a stranger follows up his introduction 
by taking your soul to pieces and setting it up before your 
eyes, until in most instances you despise it yourself, after 
it has been handled by the dirty paws of a fool. Glad to 
see you have more sense and tact than that, sir.” 

“ Thank you !” answered Lynedon, with a pleasant smile 
and bow, as he turned round again to Philip. “ After this, 
I suppose I must say no more about the knowledge I have 
gained of you from your writings — which is, nevertheless, 
the time way of becoming acquainted with a man. In the 
world we have so many various outward selves.” 

“ Humph ! we oughtn’t to have, though !” muttered 
Drysdale, still taking the answer out of Philip’s mouth. 
He did not know how thankful the young man was for the 
interposition. 

“Perhaps so,” continued Lynedon, politely, and still 
turning to his silent host. “ But in numerous ways, too, I 
have heard so much of you — from Mr.Pennythorne, and — ■ 
in several other quarters.” Philip changed color, and be- 
gan to talk hastily about the Pennythornes. 

“ I believe I was invited to meet you at Blank Square, 
Mr. Lynedon, only for the trouble that intervened.” 

“ Ah ! yes — some death in the family. Have they recov- 
ered from the melancholy event ?” said Paul. But, though 
his face was composed to a decent gravity, the tone was 
not quite sincere. 

“ I knew they would kill that lad — the youngest, was it 
not ? He was a clever fellow. I dare say you miss him, 
Wychnor?” observed old David. 

“ I do, indeed.” 

“What a good-for-nothing wretch and idiot the father 


THE OGILVIES. 


281 


has been ! I wish I had told him so,” cried Drysdale, in- 
dignantly. 

“ Hush ! you would forgive him if you saw him now,” 
Philip gently interposed ; and then he spoke more about 
Leigh, to which Drysdale listened, while Paul Lynedon sat 
twirling his cane, trying to assume the same interest. He 
did not do it so well as usual, though ; for Wychnor de- 
tected his abstraction, and apologized. 

“ You knew nothing, I believe, of this poor lost friend 
of mine, so the conversation can not be very interesting to 
you.” 

“ Indeed, you mistake,” answered the other. Lynedon 
would not have been considered unfeeling on any account. 
Besides, he had taken much pains to collect evidence con- 
cerning the character of the young author, who was likely 
to be useful to him in many ways, and whose supposed 
connection with that little episode of his life concerning 
Eleanor Ogilvie had entirely slipped from his easy memo- 
ry. Determined to please, he was now exerting in every 
way his own favorite talent of being “ all things to all 
men.” Paul often thought this was the wisest thing his 
saintly namesake ever said, and congratulated himself 
rather irreverently on the presumed resemblance between 
them. He failed there, however, since Wychnor came to 
the point in his own candid way by saying at once, 

“ I conclude the reason assigned by Mr. Pennythorne for 
our meeting at his house will further explain this obliging 
visit of yours, Mr. Lynedon ; and as the matter is no secret, 
I believe, let me tell you with what pleasure I would have 
aided your views had I been able.” 

“ Aided his views ! So he had some views ? He never 
told me any thing about them !” said Drysdale, with a de- 
gree of simplicity that made Lynedon internally wish him 
at that “central fire,” the investigation of which formed 
the old philosopher’s present hobby. “I thought you 
came here only to see the young author, of whom you said 
you had heard so much ?” 

“ Certainly, that was my chief inducement. You only 
19 


282 


THE OGILVIES. 


do me justice, my worthy friend.” And Paul smiled, still 
courteously as ever, but immediately tried to free himself 
from a rather awkward predicament by turning the con- 
versation to his plans with regard to shire. 

“ You resided there, I believe ? A beautiful county ! 
There is none in England where I should so much wish to 
make my home.” 

Philip bent his head, and his fingers played convulsively 
with the papers on his desk. 

“ So,” said Drysdale, “ in plain English, you want to 

stand for the borough of L . Pennythorne said so. 

And you need Wychnor’s knowledge of the town. Haven’t 
you any friends there yourself?” 

“No — yes.” And Paul looked rather confused, being 
struck with the sudden possibility that Mr. Wychnor 
might have been informed of certain old follies, the very 
thought of which brought a dye of shame to his cheek. 
Philip saw it ; it seemed to his eyes the consciousness of 
happy love, and his very soul writhed within him. 

These strangely diverse feelings inclined both the young 
men to the same course. Each instinctively glided from 
the subject, and sought refuge in safe generalities. The 
conversation became of a broken, indifferent, skirmishing 
description, natural to two men, each of whom is bent upon 
concealing his own thoughts and discovering those of his 
companion. In this Paul Lynedon succeeded best ; he was 
a far greater adept than Philip Wychnor. lie talked well 
— at times brilliantly — but still, even to the most earnest 
subjects he seemed to render only lip-service, and always 
appeared to consider more the effect of his words than the 
words themselves. He and David Drysdale almost en- 
grossed the conversation ; but once or twice, in some of 
his finest sentences, Paul stopped, and wondered why the 
eyes of Philip Wychnor were so earnestly fixed upon him. 
He did not like their scrutiny at all. 

After a space, Mr. Lynedon, growing rather wearied, re- 
membered that all this while his cab was waiting in the 
street, and that he had an important engagement — “ at the 


THE 0GILVIES. 


283 


Regent’s Park” — which was the first place he happened to 
think of. As the chance word passed his careless lips, 
those of Philip Wychnor quivered and grew pale. Re- 
gent’s Park ! It was to all his doubts confirmation strong. 

Paul Lynedon’s adieu was full of the most friendly cour- 
tesy. He thanked his new acquaintance warmly for all his 
kindness — “ the kindness which he intended to show,” as 
Hrysdale commented rather pointedly — and said, how glad 
and proud he should be to number among his friends Mr. 
Philip Wychnor. Perhaps he felt the greater part of what 
he expressed, for no one ever looked at the young author 
without a feeling of interest and regard. 

“You will be sure to come and see me soon,” said Paul, 
holding out his hand. For the moment Philip drew back 
his own, but the act was unseen in the half-darkened room. 
With a violent effort he repressed his feelings, and suffer- 
ed, rather than returned, the grasp of Lynedon. When 
the door closed on his visitor, Philip sighed as though a 
mountain had been removed from his breast. He almost 
forgot the presence of Drysdale. 

At length the latter roused himself from a brown study 
of some minutes’ duration with — 

“It’s of no use. I can’t make out that young man at 
all. Can you ?” 

“ I ? Who ?” asked Philip, startled out of his own silent 
thoughts. 

“Paul Lynedon, of course. I should like to anatomize 
him — that is, his soul. What an interesting psychological 
study it would make !” 

“Would it?” said Philip, absently. 

“ Yes, certainly. I have been trying the experiment my- 
self for some days. Having nearly come to the end of the 
abstract sciences, I intend to begin the grand science of 
man, and my first subject shall be Paul Lynedon. What 
do you think of him ?” 

Philip conquered a rising spasm, and said firmly, “ He 
seems an intellectual man, and is doubtless as good as he 
looks.” 


284 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ There’s the thing ! As he looks — as he seems ! 1 have 

never yet been able to say as he is. He puzzles me, just 
like the old fable of the chameleon. View him at different 
times, and he appears of different colors; and yet you can’t 
say he changes his skin — ’tis the same animal after all. 
The change is but the effect of the lights through which 
he passes. To-night he seemed quite different from the in- 
dividual whom I had the honor of meeting yesterday at 
Mrs. Lancaster’s. Yet I don’t believe Paul Lynedon is 
either a liar or a hypocrite ; it could not be so, with his 
head.” And David, who was a phrenologist as well as a 
physiognomist, indulged his young friend with a long dis- 
course, which we shall skip over. 

“ The question lies here,” continued Drysdale, energetic- 
ally ; “ is he a true man, or is he not ? I can’t say which 
at present ; only I think this, that if not true he might 
have been made so. Some people go swinging unsteadily 
through life with a sort of pendulum character, and yet 
they are composed of tolerably sound metal after all, if you 
can but get hold of them. Nobody, I think, has ever taken 
this firm grasp of Paul Lynedon ; I mean, no one has ever 
had influence enough over him to cause him to be what he 
now only tries to seem. Don’t you think so?” 

Philip had listened with an eagerness so intense that it 
became positive suffering. He did not believe all Drysdale 
said — he would not believe it. The Paul Lynedon of the 
world was nothing to him : the Paul Lynedon whom Elea- 
nor had chosen — whom Eleanor would marry — he com- 
pelled himself to think these very words — was the most 
vital interest he had in life. To doubt of this man’s wor- 
thiness gave him an acute pang. He would satisfy him- 
self: steeling his heart to all lower feelings, he w^ould not 
shrink from Lynedon, but seek to know him thoroughly. 

“You do not answer. Do you agree with me?” asked 
Drysdale, when, having talked himself fairly out of breath, 
he leaned back, intently contemplating the quaint flicker- 
ing shadows which the street-lamp produced on the wall 
of the yet unlighted room. 


THE OGILYIES. 


285 


“ All you say is quite true, I doubt not,” answered Phil- 
ip ; “ still, I can not speak positively upon any evidence but 
my own judgment and knowledge of the man.” 

“ Bravo, Wychnor ! Caution very large, and conscien- 
tiousness likewise. I always said so,” cried the old man, 
gently tapping his own head with his forefinger in the two 
spots indicated by phrenologists as the seats of those qual- 
ities. “ But the evidence you allude to is just what I want 
you to get, and that — I may as well say so at once, being 
no hand at hiding any thing — that was the chief reason 
why I brought Lynedon to you, even more than his own 
wish of knowing you. Perhaps you might do him some 
good if you tried.” 

“ I wish I could, God knows !” cried Philip, earnestly— 
so earnestly that Drysdale first looked surprised, and then 
rose with a sudden impulse to pat his young favorite’s 
shoulder in a manner expressive of the most genuine ap- 
proval, saying affectionately, 

“ Well, I knew you were a kind-hearted, generous fellow 
as ever breathed. Perhaps I never should have thought 
it worth my while to study man at all if you had not at- 
tracted me to the science. Now, about Paul Lynedon — 
are you listening to me ?” 

“Yes, my good friend, with all my heart.” 

“ Well, do you see that lamp shining through your mus- 
lin curtain, what fantastic shadows it casts ? I can trace 
a different shape on the wall every time I come here. But 
if there were no lamp, mind, there wouldn’t be any shadow 
at all. Now the lamp may stand for Paul Lynedon’s soul ; 
the curtain, always assuming different folds, for his outward 
character, modified by temperament, circumstance, or edu- 
cation. And what I want you to do is just this — ” Suit- 
ing the action to the word, he gently and slowly drew the 
curtain aside, and the broad, full light illumined the whole 
wall. 

“I will do so, with heaven’s blessing!” cried Wychnor. 
“ For her sake ! for her sake !” he murmured in his heart, 
which knew not how needless was the vow. 


286 


THE OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER XXXVHI. 

He was justly accounted a skillful poisoner who destroyed his victims by 
bouquets of lovely and fragrant flowers. The art has not been lost — nay, 
it is practiced every day by — the world ! — Bishop Latimer. 

Take heed — we are passionate ! Our milk of love 
Doth turn to wormwood, and that’s bitter drinking ! 

If that ye cast us to the winds — the winds 
Will give us their unruly, restless nature ; 

We whirl, and whirl, and where we settle, Fazio, 

But He who ruleth the mad winds can know. — Milman. 

It will perhaps throw some light on the peculiarities of 
Lynedon’s character when we relate that he did actually 
drive to the Regent’s Park to fulfill his long-standing and 
important engagement with — the trees. Whether this was 
done as a conscience-salve, or as a safeguard against any 
chance that might betray to Wychnor the insincerity of his 
excuse, is needless to explain. Probably the act was com- 
pounded of both motives. 

He was not quite satisfied with his visit. From it he 
had expected much, having some time previously listened 
with too credulous ears to Mr. Pennythorne’s grandilo- 
quent description of the immense connection “his excellent 
friend Wychnor” possessed among the county families in 

shire. Added thereto, Paul had a faint recollection of 

seeing the name of Wychnor on some monument or other 

during his walk through L Cathedral with Eleanor 

Ogilvie. He felt vexed that his own foolish sensitiveness 
about that ridiculous affair should have made him change 
the subject without trying to discover from Philip his 

chances as M.P. for the city of L . For he had quite 

determined to plunge into public life, as the only resource 
against the ennui that was creeping over him. And, being 
now past thirty, he had come to the conclusion that life 
was one long sham, and that there was no such thing as 
love in it at all — or friendship either. 


THE OGILVIES. 


287 


Nevertheless, there seemed something in Wychnor that 
he liked; something which touched a chord in his better 
self. There never was a false character yet that did not 
feel some of its cumbrous disguises drop from it on coming 
into contact with a true one. That night he was more 
like the Paul Lynedon of Summer wood — the PaulLynedon 
whom Eleanor liked, whom Katharine so madly worshiped 
— than he had been for years. 

He had no evening engagement, so he turned into the 
Opera. Music was still his passion — still, as it had ever 
been, the spell which unlocked all his purer and higher 
feelings. Perhaps this was the reason that in his present 
frame of mind he felt attracted within its influence, and 
half-congratulated himself that, being unlikely to meet any 
one he knew, he could sit and enjoy “Anna Bolena” to the 
fullest extent. It was rather a disagreeable surprise when, 
as he passed the entrance-hall, he heard himself addressed 
by name. Turning round, he saw a face which, although 
it had altered considerably from the fresh charm of youth 
to the coarseness of mere physical beauty, he recognized 
at once as Hugh Ogilvie’s. 

“ Quite glad to shake hands with you once more, Mr. 
Lynedon — really delighted.” 

“The pleasure is mutual,” answered Paul, cordially. 
“Mr. Ogilvie, how well you are looking !” 

“ Of course. How could I help it ! But won’t you come 
and speak to Katharine ?” 

“ Is she here — Miss Ogilvie — Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean,” cried 
Lynedon, recollecting himself, and looking rather awkward. 

“ Ha ! ha ! Don’t apologize. So you heard of our mar- 
riage ? Well, let me introduce you over again to my wife ” 
— and Hugh looked toward a lady who w*as behind, lean- 
ing on the arm, not of her husband, but of some other gen- 
tleman — “ my wife, Mrs. Ogilvie !” At the sound of her 
name she turned slowly round, and Paul Lynedon and 
Katharine stood face to face. 

He was startled — almost confused — at least as much so 
as was possible for such a finished gentleman to be. Could 


288 


THE OGILVIES, 


that magnificent creature really be the little Katharine 
with whom he had flirted years ago ? “ Good heavens !” 
thought he, “ how beautiful she is !” 

Well might he think so, even though the features were 
white and still as marble, and the dark eyes seemed cold, 
proud, passionless. Passionless ! as if such orbs could ever 
be thus, except in seeming — as if such lips, whose delicate 
curves were made to tremble with every breath of emo- 
tion, could be thus firmly compressed into apparent calm- 
ness, except by the strong will which is born with every 
strong passion. Katharine was beautiful, dazzlingly beau- 
tiful ; and Lynedon not only saw it with his eyes, but felt 
it in his heart. He looked at her as he had never yet look- 
ed at any woman — with a sensation less of admiration than 
of worship. He could have knelt down before her, as in 
his days of youthful enthusiasm before some pictured ideal 
in Greek sculpture or Italian art. When she gave him her 
hand, the touch of the ungloved fingers thrilled him — per- 
haps because they were cold and statue-like, even as the 
face. He quite forgot his graceful courtesies, and bowed 
without a single compliment. Only he lifted his eyes to 
hers, with one look— the look of old — implying admiration 
— reverence — tenderness. She met it. Angel of mercy ! 
how much a woman can bear, and live ! 

There was the faintest quivering about her mouth, and 
then it was firmly set, and the proud head was lifted high- 
er, haughtier than ever, as Katharine Ogilvie said, “ My 
husband and I have much pleasure in this unexpected meet- 
ing, Mr. Lynedon.” 

Her husband! Paul had quite forgotten the fact for the 
moment. That glorious woman the wife of such a fellow 
as Hugh ! He did not like to think of it. If Katharine 
meant by this distant, proud salutation to show him the 
change that had come between them, assuredly she should 
have her wish fulfilled. He turned away, colored slight- 
ly, and bit his lip with vexation. Already the foot of 
the beautiful tyrant was approaching him ; soon the proud 
man would stoop his neck beneath it, and become in turn 


THE OGILVIKS. 


289 


the slave. He struggled a little, though, and said in his 
old manner — the Sir Charles Grandison manner, as Katha- 
rine had called it at Summerwood — “Allow me to con- 
gratulate two old friends on having thus added to their 
own happiness. That such is the case, no one who looks 
at them can doubt.” 

“You really think so! Well, I am sure we do seem 
very happy ; don’t we, Katharine ? And so we are, though 
it is long past the honeymoon.” And Hugh, with an air 
half shy, half pleased, edged nearer to his wife, so as to 
cast into shadow the individual who formed her escort — 
a mere “ walking gentleman,” whom it is needless to 
describe, except by mentioning his name — Mr. Whyte 
Browne. He politely fell back, and Katharine took her 
husband’s offered arm. But she leaned on it with an air 
of indifference, just as she would have done on a chair, a 
table, or any other article of furniture belonging to her. 
Nevertheless, Hugh looked exceedingly gratified and proud. 

“ What do you think of my wife ? She is rather altered 
from the little girl you knew at Summerwood, eh ?” he 
said, in an audible whisper to Paul, who answered aloud, 

“ Indeed, pleasant as was my past recollection of — of 
Miss Ogilvie, it is almost obliterated by the sight of Mrs. 
Ogilvie. I should hardly have recognized her.” Katha- 
rine bowed. There was a momentary curl of the lip and 
contraction of the brow, and then the face recovered its 
usual expression. Hugh patted her hand, but a few mo- 
ments after she disengaged it on some trifling excuse, and 
stood alone. 

Just then the orchestra within began the overture, and 
Hugh made a restless movement. 

“We shall be late, and you know, Katharine, you always 
scold me then — that is, I don’t mean scolding, but only a 
little gentle reproach, which we married men understand 
well. It’s rather nice than otherwise, though, Lynedon— 
if you only knew.” 

Paul crushed his heel on the floor and made no answer. 

“ We will pass on, Hugh, if you wish,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
N 2 


290 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Have you a stall, Mr. Lynedon ? Otherwise we shall he 
happy to find room for you in our box.” She gave the in- 
vitation with the dignified indifference of one who was ac- 
customed to take upon herself that duty, casting only a 
passing glance at her acquiescent husband, who echoed, 

“ Oh yes ; we shall be very happy, as Katharine says. 
Pray come, Lynedon.” 

Lynedon assented with evident pleasure. Then first over 
the proud, impassive beauty of Mrs. Ogilvie’s face there 
came a flashing smile that kindled it up like a lightning 
glare. In this smile were triumph, scorn, and revenge, with 
a delirious joy pervading all. It lasted a moment, and 
faded, but not before Lynedon had seen it, and had felt for 
the second time that strange sensation of being cowed and 
humbled before the very feet of this woman. 

“Perhaps you will take care of Mrs. Ogilvie while I get 
a book of the opera,” said the husband ; and once more 
Paul touched the hand which had before sent such a thrill 
through his frame. Lying on his arm, it looked the same 
childish hand which he had many a time toyed with and 
admired. He thought of this now, and longed to do the 
same again; but on it sparkled the warning symbol — the 
wedding-ring. It was too late ! 

Paul Lynedon was a man of quick impulses. Of his nu- 
merous small affaires de coeur , two thirds had been what 
he would probably have called “ love at first sight” — as if 
such passing enchainments of sense or fancy were not des- 
ecrations of that holy word. Had he seen Mrs. Ogilvie as 
a stranger at opera or ball, he would probably have con- 
ceived for her this idle passion of the moment. Ko wonder, 
then, that, meeting her now, in her zenith of beauty, and re- 
membering the old times when his vanity had amused it- 
self with her girlish admiration of him, the past and pres- 
ent mingled together, and created a strange and new inter- 
est in Lynedon’s breast. Before an hour had passed, dur- 
ing which he sat beside her in the opera-box, listening with 
her to the rich music, which contributed not a little to the 
bewildering charm of the moment, Paul began to drink in 


THE OGILVIES. 


291 


her every look and tone, and feel the deepest chords of his 
being respond to her fascinations. 

For she was fascinating — she wished to be so. In a 
short space the frigid dignity of her demeanor melted 
away, and she became the beautiful, winning, dazzling 
creature who for some months had been the very cynosure 
Df the circle wherein Mrs. Lancaster and her set convolved. 
She talked, now with the brilliancy of a vivid imagination, 
now with the softness of an impassioned nature. Of all 
her conversation Lynedon had the complete monopoly, for 
Mr. Whyte Browne had mysteriously vanished, and Hugh 
Ogilvie was always half asleep between the acts of an opera 
— he said the noise and light made him drowsy. He was 
too much accustomed to see his wife receive constant at- 
tentions and engross all conversation to mind it in the 
least. Besides, poor Hugh’s simple, unexacting, content 
ed love was never crossed by the shadow of jealousy. He 
composed himself to sleep in the corner with an apology 
about the long ride he had taken that morning, and left his 
wife and Paul to amuse each other. 

There is no spell more overwhelming than for two peo- 
ple to whom music is a feeling, a passion, to sit together 
listening as with one soul to the same delicious strain : the 
rapt attention — - the heart-thrilling pause — and then the 
melting silence that comes afterward, when eyes meet as 
if saying mutely, “We both feel — therefore we are one.” 

This strong sympathy existed between Katharine and 
Paul. When the act ended, he turned to her, and saw, 
not the bewitching creature of fashion, whose very art and 
coquetry seemed charming, but the deep-souled woman, in 
whose heaving bosom and tremulous lip a world of pas- 
sionate feeling was revealed. It struck the one true chord 
in Paul Lynedon’s mercurial nature, and his tone changed 
from light sparkling wit and fulsome compliment to ear- 
nestness and respect. 

“ You love music as much as ever, I see. You have not 
changed in that, though in every thing else.” 

“ Have I changed ? — ah ! I suppose so — we all do !” said 


292 


THE OGILVIES. 


Katharine; and a smile — first of scorn, then of well-as- 
sumed sweetness — wreathed itself round her mouth. But 
the hand which hung unseen among the folds of her dress 
was clenched so convulsively that the rose it held fell 
crushed to pieces on the floor. 

“ Even so,” pursued Lynedon, with a curious mixture of 
affectation and real feeling ; “ but allow me to quote, or 
rather misquote, the words of our dear old Shakspeare, and 
say, 

Nothing in you that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange.” 

Katharine raised her graceful head. “ You would imply 
the need there was for a change, and you are right, Mr. 
Lynedon; no one can be more conscious than myself of 
the deficiencies of my girlhood.” There was a bitterness 
even in the half-jesting speech ; and Paul felt the edge of 
his elegant compliment blunted. He was engaging in an 
attack wherein such light weapons would not do. Slight- 
ly confused, he quitted the subject, and spoke of the opera. 

“ I never heard Grisi sing better than to-night. She is 
a grand creature, but still she is not my ideal of Anne Bo- 
leyn. She makes a stormy tragedy-queen of the meek, 
broken-spirited woman, which is our notion of Anne’s char- 
acter as gathered from history.” 

“ History is a trusty chronicler and unfolder of that easy, 
well-explained subject, the workings of a woman’s heart,” 
answered Katharine, with an irony that sat on her so grace- 
fully and delicately that Paul was attracted more and 
more. 

“Your meaning is just, Mrs. Ogilvie. Perhaps Grisi’s 
reading is the true one. Still, I wonder how far we may 
unite romance with history, especially as concerning Per- 
cy — Anne’s first love before she married King Henry. 
That fact argues against the poet’s creed of female con- 
stancy as much as this passionate Semiramis-like heroine 
is opposed to the received doctrine of the results caused by 
a broken heart — meek patience and resignation, and all 


THE 0GILVIES. 


29S 


that sort of thing.” Paul’s mocking speech was silenced 
by the flash which he saw gleam in Katharine’s eyes. 

“ That is the way you men speak of women !” she cried. 
“You sting them into misery — you goad them on to evil 
— and then you retort on them with a jeer. I beg your 
pardon, Mr. Lynedon,” she added, with a sudden alteration 
of voice and countenance, and a laugh so light and musi- 
cal that Paul started at the marvelous change. “ It is too 
bad of me to amuse you with these commonplace revilings 
of your noble sex — a subject on which, of course, no fair 
lady is expected to speak sincerely.” 

Paul acknowledged the implied amende with a look of 
extreme gratification. “ I am sure, judging by the laws 
of attraction, Mrs. Ogilvie’s acquaintance among my sex 
can only comprise the very best of mankind.” 

“ I receive the compliment, only returning you the half 
of it, which seems ingeniously meant for yourself,” said 
Katharine, gladly. “ And you must acknowledge that my 
late speech was an excellent imitation off the stage of that 
magnificent Diva who is now entering it. So, silence !” 
She laid her fair jeweled finger on her mouth, round which 
the most dimpling girlish smiles now danced. Could those 
lips be the same, the very same, which had looked so white 
an hour before ? Those lips — the very lips which, the last 
time he saw her — Paul Lynedon had — He could not look 
at them or at her. He felt dizzy — burning — cold. 

Hugh roused himself at the sound of the orchestra, and 
came forward sleepily, stretching his long limbs. 

“ Do you find this opera amusing, Katharine ? because I 
can’t say I do.” 

“ Possibly not,” said the wife, with a glance between 
sarcasm and indifference. But when she saw Lynedon’s 
eyes rest contemptuously on Hugh, and then on herself 
with a sort of insinuating pride, her pity rose. “You will 
acknowledge, Mr. Lynedon, that my husband is very kind 
in accompanying — I mean, taking me — to the opera when- 
ever I like ; the more so as, not understanding music, he 
does not derive from it the same pleasure as myself.” 


294 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ You’re a good girl, Katharine,” said Hugh, thankfully 
“And Mr. Lynedon won’t think it rude, my going to sleep. 
He would have done the same if he had ridden to Summer' 
wood and back, on that hard-mouthed brute, Brown Bess.” 

Paul’s satirical smile became one of polite attention un- 
der the gleam of Mrs. Ogilvie’s compelling eyes. 

“ Still fond of horses and hunting, Mr. Ogilvie ?” 

Hugh gave expression to a melancholy grimace. “I 
can’t hunt now we live in town — and Katharine does not 
like it. I suppose she’s right — she always is. Hunting is 
dangerous, and a married man ought to take care of him- 
self, you know. It’s all her love for me.” 

“Come, you gentlemen can talk presently. At all 
events, Hugh, pray be silent while Mario sings Fm tu .” 

“ Thanks for the reproof, Mrs. Ogilvie.” And Lynedon 
bent forward attent. Throughout the song he stood lean- 
ing against the side of the box in his old attitude, with 
folded arms, and fixed, earnest eyes. Behind him, Hugh 
lounged on a chair in a rather awkward fashion — his el- 
bows on his knees, his chin on his two hands, with shut 
eyes and half-open mouth. The two — both what the world 
would consider fine-looking men — were types of distinct 
kinds of beauty — the intellectual and the animal. Katha- 
rine looked from one to the other, and shuddered. Heaven 
forgive the wife for that fearful thrill of mingled love and 
hatred which came over her! She could have shrieked 
aloud with despair — almost with terror — for she felt the 
demon entering her soul. 

Yet, when the opera ended, and Paul, on bidding adieu, 
acquiesced eagerly in Hugh’s invitation to dine with them 
the next week, Katharine felt a glow of horrible happiness. 
Had a river of fire rolled between her and Paul Lynedon, 
she would have plunged into it — to gain once more the 
sight of his face — the sound of his voice 1 


THROUGHOUT THE SONG HE HTOOR LEANING AGAINST TnB SIRE OF THE ROX TN HIS OUT) ATTITTTRK. WITH FOLRER ARMS. ANT) FIXER 
















« 



























* 



















THE OGILYIES. 


295 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The affections, like the conscience, are rather to be led than drawn ; 
*nd ’tis to be feared that they who marry where they do not love, will love 
where they do not marry. — Fuller. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Ogilvie, of Westbank Villa, Regent’s 
Park, were very different from the blithe Katharine and 
cousin Hugh of Summerwood. The latter, deprived of 
that physical out-of-door life which comprised his whole 
existence, was growing dull, stout, lazy. The heavy-look- 
ing man who lounged wearily over his late breakfast, the 
greater part of which became the perquisite of his sole 
companions in the meal — two pet dogs — was a melancholy 
contrast to the lithe, active youth who used to come bound- 
ing in from his morning ride or walk to the breakfast-table 
at Summerwood. 

“ Down, Tiger, down ! You must creep out of the way 
when your mistress comes ; she don’t like you as she used 
to do. Heigho ! twelve o’clock ! Katharine gets later 
than ever. She always was down by eleven at least,” 
sighed Hugh to himself. “ This comes of living in town. 
Things were not thus at Summerwood.” He rang for his 
wife’s maid, and sent up a deprecating message, that if 
Mrs. Ogilvie could manage it without hurrying herself, he 
would very much like to see her before he took his morn- 
ing ride. And then, in despair, he patted his dogs again, 
thinking with doleful regret of “ the life that late he led.” 

Katharine heard the humble request with an impatient 
gesture, and turned her fevered cheek again on the pillow. 
It was indeed a long, long time since Hugh had been bless- 
ed with that brightest morning sunshine for a young hus- 
band — his wife’s cheerful smile at his breakfast-board. 
She, who once used to rise with the lark, now indulged 
daily in that dreamy stupor, half sleeping, half waking, by 
which, in our troubled and restless moods, we seek to 
20 


296 


THE OGILVIES. 


shorten the time and deaden consciousness. It is only the 
happy and light-hearted that dare to face the morning 
hours. Katharine Ogilvie shrank from them, and never 
rose until near midday. 

Hugh had mounted Brown Bess in despair, and cantered 
her thrice round the Park before his wife appeared. On 
his return, he found Katharine still in the breakfast-room. 
Though during the ride he had in his vexation resolved to 
give her a right due conjugal lecture, she looked so beau- 
tiful in her white morning dress that he quite forgot it, and 
kissed her heartily instead. 

She received his welcome coldly enough. “ There, that 
will do. Why will you bring those two horrid dogs, 
Hugh ? You know they annoy me. Take them away.” 

“ That I will. Here, Tiger ! Leo !” He turned them 
out and shut the door. “ I never let them in here except 
when you are not down to breakfast, Katharine. But that 
is often enough,” he added, disconsolately. 

“ I can not help it, with our late hours and visiting.” 

“ Why should we visit so much, then ? I’m sure I don’t 
want it. Suppose we were to turn over a new leaf, my 
darling Katharine ?” 

“ Do not trouble me, Hugh ; I told you when I married 
that I must see a little of the world. You want nothing 
but dogs and horses ; I want many other things — books, 
amusements, society — and I can not be happy without 
them. Don’t judge me by yourself, because my pleasures 
are very different from yours.” 

“ Ah ! yes, I know they are,” answered Hugh, with a 
sigh. “Well, you were always far cleverer than I; it 
shall be as you like ; only if you would let me see a little 
more of you — ” 

“ Yes, yes. Only do not interrupt me now that I have 
this new book to read ; you may sit down and look at the 
second volume. Not that it would interest you, except 
that the author is your old acquaintance, Mr.Wychnor.” 
Hugh seated himself in obedient silence, and turned over 
the leaves of the book. His gentle forbearance made no 


THE OGILVIES. 


297 


impression on his wife. A woman like Katharine had ten 
times rather be trodden under foot by a man who is her 
superior, than worshiped as an idol by one beneath herself. 
How fearful is the danger into which such a woman plunges 
when she takes for the guide of her destiny — the husband 
who ought to be reverenced next to Heaven — one who 
must perforce be to her, not a ruler, but a slave ! 

In the desperation which prompted her sudden marriage, 
Katharine had never thought of this. She considered not 
the daily burden of a loveless, unequal yoke — the petty 
jars — the continual dragging down a strong mind to the 
weary level of an inferior one. Heaven made woman from 
man, not man from woman. A great-hearted and good 
man can lift his wife nearer to his own standard, but by 
no power on earth can a superior woman elevate her hus- 
band’s weaker mind. She must sink down to him ; all the 
love in the world will not make him her equal. And if 
love be not there, woe, woe unto her, for it is a fearful 
precipice on which she stands ! 

Mrs. Ogilvie’s pride had carried her successfully through 
the first months of her married life. Young, beautiful, and 
universally admired as she was, no one had cast upon her 
the shadow of blame. Her self-respect, if not her love, had 
covered Hugh’s inferiority as with a shield, which made 
others show him the deference that the wife felt not, but 
had the grace to simulate. For herself, she received the 
incense which universally greeted her with such proud in- 
difference, that many men, whom one smile would have 
brought unworthily to her feet, were content to be driven 
in chains, like wild tigers harnessed to the car of some 
Amazonian queen. She let them see — ay, and the world 
see too — that she would not step from her height for one 
moment, so as to become their prey. Thus it was with the 
young wife, until her path was again crossed by the shad- 
ow of that terrible love which had made her life’s destiny 
- — until she was once more brought within the influence of 
Paul Lynedon. 

Against this influence she r.ow struggled. She felt that 


298 


THE OGILVIES. 


already a change had come over her, breaking the dull 
round of her aimless existence, to escape the inanity of 
which she had plunged into the excitement of perpetual 
society. It was as if a gleam of lurid brightness had dart- 
ed across her sky : the world itself did not look as it had 
done one little day before. She sought not to analyze her 
own sensations : she only knew that where there had been 
darkness there now was light; and if the flash were a blind- 
ing flame, she would nave lifted her eager eyes to it just 
the same. Her heart was yet purO enough to be fearless ; 
her sense of a wife’s duty was sufficiently strong, she deem- 
ed, to stand in the place of a wife’s love. And even with 
regard to Paul Lynedon there had come a change. She 
worshiped no longer with blind adoration the all-perfect 
ideal of her girlhood, but with her love’s reviving fires 
mingled a darkening cloud of vengeance. She desired to 
make him feel what she had herself felt — to drive him mad 
for her sake, and then fling back upon him the dread “too 
late.” 

While, with the book before her eyes, she leaned in her 
cushioned chair — reading, not the beautiful outpourings of 
Philip Wychnor’s genius, but the fearful writing on her own 
heart — Katharine heard the name which had once been to 
her a glad, all-pervading music. The silent tete-d-tete of 
the husband and wife was broken by Paul Lynedon. 

He had last night ingeniously conveyed Mrs. Ogilvie’s 
opera-glass to his own pocket, and now came to express, 
with his usual indifference to truth, the extreme regret 
which this fact would have caused him, except, indeed, for 
the pleasure of returning the fair owner her jjroperty. 

Lynedon would have received a welcome, though, with- 
out this excuse. Hugh was always glad to see any stray 
visitor who brightened up his wife’s gloomy brow. It is 
only a happy home that needs no guests within its walls. 
Paul found Mrs. Ogilvie as beautiful by daylight as under 
the glare of opera radiance. He had never seen any one 
who came so near his ideal of womanhood. He admired, 
too, the very atmosphere in which she moved, her house 


THE OGLLVIES. 


299 


being filled with indications of its mistress’s taste in music, 
art, and literature. His refined perception at once detect* 
ed these mute revealings of a woman’s mind and character. 
Struck more and more, he exerted his whole powers of 
pleasing, and the unfailing charm extended even to Hugh. 
The trio talked pleasantly for some time on general and in- 
dividual subjects, and Lynedon heard how Sir Robert and 
Lady Ogilvie still resided at Sumrnerwood, though the lat- 
ter was in rather infirm health. 

“ I can not be much with mamma now — it is impossible,” 
observed Katharine ; “ but I have petitioned my sister-in- 
law to visit her. You remember Eleanor?” 

“ Of course he does. Why, Lynedon, I used to think you 
were smitten there.” 

Paul replied, with great self-possession and indifference, 
“I feel for Miss Eleanor Ogilvie the same respect which I 
have for any lady who honors me with her acquaintance.” 

As he spoke, he caught the searching glance of Katha- 
rine, but it glided from his face in a moment. Hugh per- 
sisted in his idle jest. “Well, well, I suppose I was mis- 
taken. And so you have got no further than acquaintance 
with any of the pretty girls you have met ? Never expect 
me to take in that, Lynedon ! Why, we heard you were 
going to be married to a lady abroad — only nobody knew 
her name. Who said so ? — Mrs. Lancaster, was it not, 
Katharine ?” 

“ I am sorry Mrs. Lancaster should have ascribed to me 
more happiness than I am likely to attain. I have never 
yet seen the woman whom I could marry.” It was a sav- 
ing “could ” — he laid it to his conscience as an atonement 
for the falsehood. “Mrs. Ogilvie, allow me !” he added, 
stooping for a book which, in hastily reaching it, she had 
let fall. He staid to gather up some dried flowers which 
were scattered from the open leaves, and so did not see 
Katharine’s face. When he presented the book, she took 
it with a steady hand, and a graceful, smiling acknowledg- 
ment. 

“ It is a favorite volume of mine, though I have only late- 


300 


THE OGILVIES. 


ly placed it among the list of the books I love,” she said. 
“The author is an acquaintance of ours — a Mr.Wychnor.” 

“Philip Wychnor — an excellent fellow! I know him, 
and like him much. How glad I am to know any friend 
of yours !” 

“Indeed, we can’t exactly call him a friend. We can 
never get him out here,” said Hugh. “ Katharine, let us 
try him once more, and invite him for Thursday. Perhaps 
Mr. Lynedon might persuade him. I wish Eleanor were 
here — she would ! They two always got on together ex- 
cellently.” 

“ Tell Mr.Wychnor,” said Katharine, “ that, though it is 
impossible for Eleanor to be with us on Thursday, I still 
hope he will come. He must meet her here some day the 
following week. But stay — I will not trouble you with so 
long a message. Shall I write — if, as you are going to see 
him, you would kindly deliver my note ?” 

“ To be of use to Mrs. Ogilvie in any thing would give 
me only too much happiness,” was his reply, spoken for 
once with entire undisguised truth. When, a few minutes 
after, Lynedon passed out of the house, he drew the deli- 
cate missive from his pocket, and looked on the handwrit- 
ing and seal with a lingering, loving gaze. He felt that he 
could have traversed all London to fulfill the slightest wish 
of Katharine Ogilvie. 

The whole way to Philip Wychnor’s abode her voice 
rang in his ear — her face flitted before him. He contrived, 
however, to banish the haunting vision a little, so as to en- 
ter into conversation, and efface the evident confusion 
which his unexpected entrance caused. Paul attributed 
this to the sudden disturbance he had occasioned in Wych- 
nor’s literary pursuits, and thanked his stars that he was 
not an author. To shorten his visit, he quickly delivered 
the letter. 

“ You will go, of course ? They are a charming family 
— the Ogilvies. I feel quite proud to call them all friends, 
as I am sure you must, since you, I believe, share H^sama 
privilege?” 


THE OGILYIES. 


301 


After this remark, Paul looked up for an answer, and re- 
ceived Philip’s half-suppressed “ Yes !” 

“ Mrs. Ogilvie is so anxious to know more of you, and 
you can not refuse her. Indeed, Mr. Wychnor, you see 
how desirous we all are for your friendship.” 

“ We all are !” Philip shrank visibly — the careless word 
seemed to him to imply so much. But there was a cordial 
frankness in Lynedon’s manner that he could not resist. 
He remembered, too, the conversation with David Drys- 
dale, and his own promise concerning Paul. 

“ I shall not see her ,” he reasoned within himself ; “ no, I 
could not bear that. But I will not draw back from this 
man : I will prove him — I will read his heart, and be satis- 
fied whether he is worthy of her or not. Mr. Lynedon,” he 
said aloud, “ it has of late been rarely my custom to visit 
— I have neither time nor inclination ; but, since Mr. and 
Mrs. Ogilvie desire it, I will come on Thursday.” 

“ That is right ! it will give every one so much pleasure!” 
And again Philip’s shrinking fingers were compressed in 
the warm grasp of his supposed rival. They talked on for 
a few minutes longer on other subjects, and then Paul quit- 
ted him. 

Philip Wychnor sank back on his chair with a heavy 
sigh. “ It is my doom — I can not escape. Heaven grant 
me strength to bear it all !” 


CHAPTER XL. 

How often — ah ! how often — between the desire of the heart and its ful- 
fillment lies only the briefest space of time or distance, and yet the desire 
remains forever unfulfilled ! It is so near that we can touch it with the 
hand, and yet so far that the eye can not behold it. — Longfellow. 

Oh for a horse with wings ! — Shakspeare. 

“ Four years — four years !” 

Eleanor murmured these words to herself in that half- 
melancholy dreaminess which invariably comes over one 
of thoughtful nature when standing, no matter how hope- 
fully, on the brink of what seems a crisis in life’s history. 


302 


THE OGILVIES. 


The present time appeared a crisis in hers. She was going 
to London — going where she was sure to meet Philip. 
Soon the long-affianced lovers would look on each other’s 
face. After such a season of absence, and a brief period 
of silence, almost estrangement, how would they meet? 
Eleanor had no doubt, no dread, in her faithful heart ; but 
still she was thoughtful, and when all the preparations for 
the morrow’s journey were completed, she sat down by the 
window of her little chamber, and watched the twilight 
shadows deepen on the gray cathedral, saying to herself 
over and over again, “ Four years — four years !” 

It was, indeed, thus long since she had seen Philip. Four 
years ! It seems a short time to maturer age, but to youth 
it is an eternity. Nineteen and twenty-three? What a 
gulf often lies between the two periods of existence. The 
child’s heart — many a young girl is at nineteen still a child 
— is taken away, and in its stead has come the woman’s, 
which must beat on, on, loved or loveless, enjoying or en- 
during life, until life’s end ! It is a solemn thing to have 
traveled so far on the universal road that we begin to look 
not only forward, but backward — to say, even jestingly, 
“ When I was a child .” And to some it chances that, in 
every space thus journeyed over, uprises a spectre, which 
confronts them with its ghastly face whenever they turn 
to review the past ; nay, even if they set their faces brave- 
ly and patiently to the future, they hear continually behind 
them its haunting footsteps, mocking each onward tread 
of theirs, and knelling into their hearts the eternal “no 
more.” 

On Eleanor’s peaceful life this bitterness had not passed. 
To her, the “ four years” on which she now dreamily mused 
had brought little outward change. They had flowed on 
in a quiet, unbroken routine of duties, patiently fulfilled, 
yet somewhat monotonous. It often seemed hardly a 
month since she and Philip had sat together that sweet 
spring morning beneath the beautiful double cherry-tree 
on which she now looked. Yet, since then, three times she 
had watched its budding, leafing, flowering — had watched 


THE OGILVIES. 


303 


it alone f And the clematis which that same morning, in 
the playfulness of happy, newly-betrothed lovers, they to- 
gether planted in memory of the day, had now climbed 
even to her window, and flung therein a cloud of perfume. 
It came over her senses wooingly, like the memory of those 
dear olden times, and of Philip’s precious love. She lean- 
ed her head against the casement, and drank in the fra 
grance, until her eyes filled with happy tears. 

“I shall see him ! I shall see him ! — soon, ah ! soon !” she 
whispered, while her fancy conjured up his likeness as she 
used to watch him, lying on the grass dreamily in summer 
noons, with the light falling on his fair hair and his deli- 
cate, almost boyish cheek. Picturing him thus, Eleanor 
half smiled to herself, remembering that Philip was no 
boy now — that four years must have given him quite the 
port and appearance of a man. He would be, ay, almost 
eight-and-twenty now, and he had wrestled with the world, 
and gained therein fame and success. Ah ! he would not 
look like the Philip whose boyish grace had been her ideal 
of beauty for so long. He must be changed in that, at 
least. She was almost sorry, yet proud to think how great 
he had become. And she — 

Eleanor did not often think of herself, especially her out- 
ward self ; but she did now. Yet it was still with reference 
to him. Was she worthy of him ? In her heart — her faith- 
ful, loving heart — she knew she was. But in external 
things ? When she thought of Philip — living in London, 
gay, courted, moving among the talented and beautiful — 
and herself, a simple country girl, who had spent this long 
time in complete retirement and patient attendance on 
querulous age, Eleanor was struck by a passing feeling of 
anxiety. She was no heroine, but a very woman. She 
rose up and looked at herself in the mirror. It reflected 
a face, not beautiful, but full of a sweetness more winning 
even than beauty. Perhaps the cheek was less peach-like 
and had a straighter curve, and on the mouth, instead of 
girlhood’s dimples, sat a meek, calm smile. The eyes — ah ! 
there Time had given rather than taken away ; he had left 

O 


304 


THE OGILVIES. 


still the true heart shining from them, and had added there- 
to the deep, thoughtful soul of matured womanhood. 

Something of this their owner herself saw, for she smiled 
once more, murmuring, “He used to love my eyes — I think 
he will love them still ! And he will find only too soon 
how dearly they love him,” she added, as her heart, nigh 
oppressed with the weight of its joy and tenderness, re- 
lieved itself with what sounded almost like a sigh. 

“I will not sit thinking any more, but try and find some- 
thing to do,” said Eleanor, as she roused herself from her 
dreamy mood, and began to arrange with feminine care 
her “properties,” already packed up for the gay visit 
which was to break her monotonous life. But even in 
this occupation the one thought followed her. She was 
always neat and tasteful in her dress — as a woman should 
be; but now she felt conscious of having selected her ward- 
robe with more than usual care. The colors Philip had 
liked — the style of attire that once pleased his fancy — ever 
a poet’s fancy, graceful and ideal — all were remembered. 
It was a trifling, perhaps an idle thought, but it was nat- 
ural and womanly ; showing, too, how Love binds up into 
itself all life’s aims and purposes, great and small ; how it 
can dare the world’s battle, and sit smiling at the hearth — 
is at once a crowned monarch, a mighty hero, and a little 
playful child. 

When Eleanor’s hands had resolutely busied themselves 
for some minutes, they again drooped listlessly on her lap 
as she sat down on the floor and once more became ab- 
sorbed in pleasant musings. She was roused by a sum- 
mons from Davis. Mrs. Breynton “ wished to know wheth- 
er Miss Ogilvie intended to give her any of her company 
this evening, which she might well do, seeing it was the 
last.” 

“ You must excuse the message, Miss Eleanor,” said the 
old servant ; “ but I don’t wonder at my lady’s being cross ; 
she will miss you so much — indeed, we all shall. But I am 
glad you are going ; ’tis hard for a young creature to be 
kept moping here. I hope you’ll have a pleasant visit, 


THE OGILVIES. 


305 


Miss Ogilvie, though the house will be dull without your 
pretty face — God bless it !” 

Eleanor thanked her, almost tearfully, for her heart was 
very full. 

“And you’ll come back as blithe and merry as”— the old 
woman paused for a simile — “ as my canary there, which 
poor Master Phi — Oh ! Miss Ogilvie, perhaps in that 
great world of London you may hear something of some- 
body I daren’t speak about, though goodness knows I’ve 
never forgotten him — never!” And the unfailing apron 
was lifted to poor Davis’s eyes. 

Eleanor could not speak ; but, as she passed hastily out 
of the room, she pressed warmly the hard brown hand of 
the faithful, affectionate creature, who remembered Philip 
still. 

Mrs. Breynton sat in her arm-chair, knitting vehemently 
at the eternal quilt, which was now promoted to be nearly 
the sole occupation of its aged projector, whose dimmed 
eyes and trembling fingers grew daily less active. To- 
night they seemed incompetent even to the simple work 
to which they applied themselves with such indignant en- 
ergy, for the perpetually unroved square seemed a very 
Penelope’s web. At length, when the old lady had knit- 
ted away her wrath and her cotton, she looked up, and 
saw Eleanor sitting near her. 

“ Oh, I thought you intended to stay up stairs all the 
evening. Pray, how long is it since you troubled yourself 
to come down ?” 

“I have been here some minutes,” was the gentle an- 
swer. 

“ Why did you not speak, then ?” 

“ I did once, but you were too busy to hear me, I think. 
Now shall I take your work away and ring for tea ?” Mrs. 
Breynton assented, muttered something about the chill au- 
tumn evening, and turned her chair opposite the fire, so 
that her face was completely hid. Eleanor went about 
the light household duty — now wholly hers — with an agi- 
tated heart, for there came upon her the thought, natural 


306 


•THE OGILVIES. 


to the eve of a journey — and such a journey — How would 
be the return ? When she again sat at Mrs. Breynton’s 
board, would it be in peace and hope, or — She drove 
away the fear : she could not — would not think of it. She 
would still believe in Philip, and in Philip’s aunt. 

“ Shall I move your chair hither, or bring your tea to the 
work-table ?” she said, trying to steady her voice to its 
usual tone of affectionate attention. 

“ Bring it here. I may as well get used to taking tea 
alone,” muttered Mrs. Breynton. But when Eleanor came 
beside her, to show for the last time the simple act of care- 
ful tendance to which she had been so long accustomed, 
the harsh voice softened. 

“ Ah ! I shall have no one to make tea for me to-mor- 
row night ! Indeed, I can’t tell what I shall do without 
you, Eleanor.” 

And, instead of taking the offered cup, she gazed wist- 
fully in the sweet young face that was now becoming 
troubled and tearful. 

“ Dear friend — dear Mrs. Breynton, shall I stay ?” 

“No, no; I have no right to keep you; of course your 
brother wants you, and you yourself must be delighted to 
leave this dull place.” 

“Nay; was it not by your own consent — your own de- 
sire ?” 

“ I desired nothing. What made you think so ?” cried 
Mrs. Breynton, angrily. There was, indeed, a strange and 
painful conflict in her mind. Fearful lest all hope of win- 
ning back her erring yet cherished nephew should be lost, 
and pierced deeper and deeper with a feeling almost akin 
to remorse, she had determined to risk all chance of dis- 
covery, and let the lovers meet. Yet when the time came 
she trembled. Besides, she did not like to part even for a 
season with the gentle creature who had become almost 
necessary to her comfort ; age can ill bear any change or 
any separation. But for all that, Eleanor must go ; it was 
the only chance of bringing back him for whom Mrs. Breyn- 
ton’s pride and love alike yearned continually. Her feel- 


THE OGILYIES. 


307 


ings changed hourly — momently — with an impetuosity 
that even her yet energetic mind could not wholly conceal. 

“ Eleanor,” she continued, “ do not mistake me: you go 
by your own choice, and your friends’ wish ; I have no 
right to interfere with either. But you will come back ?” 

“ I will, indeed. And oh ! Mrs. Breynton, if — ” 

Eleanor sank down beside her. There was no mistaking 
the plea of that earnest face — the one plea which her whole 
life of duty and tenderness silently urged. But Mrs. Breyn- 
ton turned hastily and coldly away. 

“ Rise, and go to your place, my dear ; we will talk no 
more now.” And for an hour afterward, by a violent con- 
trol which showed how strong still was her lingering pride, 
the dean’s widow maintained her usual indifference, talked 
of common things, and made no allusion to the journey or 
the parting. At last she took out her watch, and desired 
Eleanor, as usual, to call the servants in to prayers. 

The girl obeyed, placed the cushion and the open book, 
as she had done every night for so long, and knelt down, 
with her eyes overflowing. 

Mrs. Breynton read the accustomed form in her accus- 
tomed tone. The servants gone, she and Eleanor stood 
alone. 

“ My dear, is every thing prepared for your journey to- 
morrow ?” 

Eleanor assented mutely ; she could not speak. 

“You will take as escort either Davis or James, which 
you choose ; either can return next day.” 

“ Oh no, you are too kind,” said Eleanor, who knew what 
it cost the precise old lady to part, for ever so short a time, 
with either of these her long-trusted domestics ; “ indeed, 
I can travel very well alone.” 

“ But I do not choose my child, my adopted daughter ” 
— she laid a faint emphasis on the word — “ to do any such 
thing. The matter is decided.” 

Pride struggled with tenderness in her manner, and still 
she stood irresolute. The old butler entered with lighted 
candles. 


308 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ James,” said his mistress, “ you will accompany Miss 
Ogilvie to her journey’s end, with all care and attention, 
as though she were my own child.” And then, finding 
the last minute had indeed come, Mrs. Breynton took her 
candle. 

“ My dear Eleanor, as you depart so early, we had bet- 
ter say good-by to-night.” She held out her hand, but 
Eleanor fell on her neck, weeping bitterly. Mrs. Breynton 
began to tremble. 

“ Hush ! my dear, you must not try me so ; I am old ; I 
can not bear agitation.” She sank on a chair, struggled a 
moment, and then stretched out her hands. “ Eleanor — 
poor Isabel’s Eleanor — forgive me. Come !” And for the 
second time in her life the childless widow folded to her 
bosom the young creature from whom, in her old age, she 
had learned, and was learning more and more, the blessed 
lesson to love . In a few moments the emotion passed, and 
she rose up. 

“ Now, my child, I must go. Give me your arm to my 
room door, for I am weak and exhausted.” 

“ And you will not let me see you in the morning ?” 

“No, my dear, no — better thus! You will come back 
at the two months’ end. You promise ?” And her search- 
ing eyes brought the quick color into Eleanor’s cheek. 

“ I promise !” She might have said more, but Mrs. Breyn- 
ton moved hastily on to her chamber. At the door she 
turned round, kissed the girl’s cheek, and bade God bless 
her. 

Then from Eleanor’s full heart burst the cry, “ Bless him 
— even him also ! Oh, dearest friend, let me take with me 
a blessing for Philip!” At the name Mrs.Breynton’s coun- 
tenance became stone once more. All her wrath, all her 
sternness, all her pride, were gathered up in one word — 

“No!” She closed the door, and Eleanor saw her not 
again. But for hours she heard the feeble, aged footstep 
pacing the next chamber, and even in her heaviness the 
girl was not without hope. 

Eleanor awoke at dawn, startled from her restless sleep 


THE OGILVIES. 


309 


oy one of those fantastic dreams that will sometimes come 
on the eve of any great joy, in which we rehearse the long- 
expected bliss, and find that, by the intervention of some 
strange “cloud of dole,” it had been changed to pain, 
Philip’s betrothed dreamed of that meeting, the hope of 
which, waking, had filled her whole soul with happiness 
almost too great to bear. She saw him, but his face was 
cold — changed. He turned away without even a clasp of 
the hand. Then the dream became wild and unconnected 
—though it was always Philip — only Philip. She was 
again with him, and the ground seemed suddenly cloven, 
while a tempestuous river rushed howling between them ; 
it grew into a mighty sea, above which she saw him stand- 
ing on a pinnacle of rock, his averted face lifted to the sky, 
his deaf ear heeding not the despairing cry which she sent 
up from the midst of the ingulfing waters. 

With that cry she awoke, to find — with oh ! what thank- 
ful joy ! — that these were but dreams. Suddenly, like a 
burst of sunshine, the joyful truth broke upon her, that this 
day, this very day, she would journey toward Philip — a 
brief space, perchance a few hours, and they would meet ! 
Once more burst from her inmost heart the rapturous mur- 
mur, “ I shall see him ! I shall see him !” And Eleanor 
turned her face on the pillow, weeping tears of happiness. 

Oh, the thrill of a remembered joy that comes with wak- 
ing — how wild, how deep it is ! Only second to that keen- 
est pang, the first waking consciousness of misery. 

Soon Eleanor rose, saying to herself the old adage — she 
had an innocent superstition lurking in the depths of her 
simple heart — “ Morning tears bring evening smiles and 
she thought, if the tears were so sweet, what must be the 
bliss of her smiles ! So she made ready for her departure 
with a cheerful spirit, over which neither the painful dream, 
nor the still more painful remembrance of Mrs. Breynton’s 
last words, could throw more than a passing cloud. 

As though to confirm this joy, Davis knocked at her 
chamber-door with an affectionate farewell message from 
Mrs. Breynton, and a letter. It was from Sir Robert Ogil- 


310 


THE OGILVIES. 


vie, begging his niece to hasten her journey, so as to accom- 
pany him that night to a party at his daughter’s house. 
“ It was Katharine’s especial wish,” he said ; and Katha- 
rine’s wish had long become law with father, mother, and 
husband too. “ Eleanor could easily reach Summerwood 
by the afternoon,” her uncle continued, “ thanks to the rail- 
way — the only useful innovation that the hateful march-of* 
intellect Radicals had ever made.” 

Eleanor read Katharine’s inclosed letter of warm invita- 
tion. It bore the following postscript : “ I especially wish 
you to come, because you will be like to meet one who will 
doubtless be as much pleased to meet you — your old ac- 
quaintance, Mr.Wychnor.” 

What a world of joy lay in that idly-scribbled line ! 

“ To-night ! to-night !” cried Eleanor, as, bewildered — 
almost stunned — by the certainty of the coming bliss, she 
sank on the bed and hid her face. Thence, gliding to her 
knees, her first impulse was one, the sacredness of which 
received no taint from its total simplicity — a thanksgiving 
lifted to Him who gave Eve unto Adam, and Sarah unto 
Abraham, for thus bringing her face to face with one whom 
— as sacredly as if the marriage words had already been 
spoken — Eleanor regarded as her husband. 

Once again, ere the last moment of departure came, Elea- 
nor entered her little chamber, shut the door, and prayed 
that she might return thither in safety and in joy ; and 
then, all bitterness reconciled, pass from this home of pa- 
tient duty into another far dearer, and thus faithfully ful- 
fill woman’s highest, holiest destiny, that of a loving and 
devoted wife. And as she arose, the sun burst through 
the gray morning clouds, and the cathedral chimes rang 
out joyfully, yet with a sweet solemnity. Their sound fol- 
lowed her like a parting blessing. 

And so, borne cheerily on the “horse with wings,” which 
to her was as welcome and as full of poetry as that dream- 
creation of Imogen’s desire, Eleanor went to Summerwood. 


THE OGILVIES. 


311 


CHAPTER XLI. 

I saw it — 

*Twas no foul vision — with unblinded eyes. 

I saw it ! his fond hands were wreathed in hers. 

. . . He gazed upon her face, 

Even with those fatal eyes no woman looks at. 

. . . . Mayst thou 

Ne’er know the racking anguish of this hour — 

The desolation of this heart ! — M ilman. 

The circle assembled in Hugh Ogilvie’s drawing-room 
was the very perfection of a social dinner-party. Every 
body knew every body, or nearly so. There was Mrs. Lan- 
caster flitting about as usual in her gossamer drapery, and 
her shadow of a husband still hovering beside her — the re- 
flection of her glory. There was David Drysdale pursuing 
his new science — the study of humanity in general, with 
especial reference to Paul Lynedon, whose movements he 
watched with Argus eyes. The object of his scrutiny, how- 
ever, was unconscious of the fact. Paul moved hither and 
thither, casting in all directions his graceful and brilliant 
talk, but for the first time in his life found himself quite in- 
different as to the sensation he created among the general 
company. They seemed to him like a moving phantasma- 
goria of shadows ; among them he saw but one form, heard 
but one voice, and these were Katharine Ogilvie’s. 

She knew this too : though he did not keep constantly 
at her side, she felt his eyes upon her wherever she moved. 
She was conscious that not one word from her lips, not one 
silken stirring of her robe, escaped the notice of Paul Lyne- 
don. The thought made her eyes glitter with triumph. 
She felt that she had only to stretch forth her arm, to lay 
her delicate hand on the lion’s mane, and, Ariadne-like, she 
would ride victoriously on the beautiful Terror which had 
once trampled on her peace. Exultingly she displayed the 
21 


312 


THE OGILVIES. 


power which had gained her universal homage — the lofty 
and careless defiance that only subdued the more. 

Yet, could any eyes have pierced through that outward 
illusion, they might perchance have seen behind the queen- 
like, radiant woman, the shadow of an angel — the angel of 
Katharine’s lost youth — mourning for her future. And 
ever and anon, piercing through the clouds that were fast 
darkening over the wife’s soul, came a low whisper, warn- 
ing her that even an erring marriage-vow becomes sacred 
forever ; and that to break it, though only in thought, is a 
sin which oceans of penitent tears can scarcely wash away. 

To none of her guests was Mrs. Ogilvie more gracefully 
courteous than to the silent, reserved Philip Wychnor. 
During the half hour that elapsed before dinner, her magic 
influence melted away many of those frosty coverings in 
which he unconsciously enveloped himself in society. A 
man instinctively lays his soul open before a woman much 
more than before one of his own sex ; and, had Katharine 
been less absorbed in the struggles of her own heart, she 
might have read much of Wychnor’s, even without his 
knowledge. 

At length there mingled in her winning speech the name 
— so loved, yet so dreaded by her hearer. 

“ I hope, after all, that you will meet your old friend 
Eleanor to-night. My father told me she was expected 
at Summerwood to-day, so I entreated him to bring her 
hither.” 

Philip made no answer : despite his iron will, he felt sti- 
fling — gasping for air. 

“ You are not well — sit down,” observed the young host- 
ess, kindly ; “ I ought not to have kept you standing talk- 
ing so long.” 

He sank on a chair, muttering something about “ having 
been overworked of late.” 

“ I feared so ; indeed, you must take care of yourself, Mr. 
Wychnor; I will not say for the world’s sake, but for that 
of your many friends, among which I hope to be numbered 
one day ; and when Eleanor comes — ” 


THE OGILVIES. 


313 


He turned away, and his eyes encountered Lynedon’s. 
The latter was apparently listening eagerly to each word 
that fell from Mrs. Ogilvie’s lips. Philip fancied the spell 
lay in the sound of the beloved name, when it was only in 
the voice that uttered it. But he had not time to collect 
his thoughts, when the drawing-room door opened, and 
Hugh burst in with somewhat of the old cheerfulness 
brightening his heavy features. 

“ Katharine, make haste : they’re both come, your father 
and pur dear Nelly. I’m so glad !” 

“ And so am I,” answered Katharine, for once echoing 
her husband ; and, making her own graceful excuses to her 
guests, she glided from the room. 

As she did so, Philip looked up with a wild, bewildered 
air, and again caught the eager gaze of Paul Lynedon fixed 
on the closing door. He started from his seat, conscious 
only of a vague desire to fly — any where, on any pretext, 
so as to escape the torture of the scene. But Drysdale in- 
tercepted him. 

“ Eh ! my young friend, what’s this ? Where are you 
going?” 

“ I — I can not tell — ” 

“ Nothing the matter — not ill ?” And, following the old 
man’s affectionate, anxious look, came the curious and sur- 
prised glance of Lynedon. Beneath it Philip’s agony sank 
into a deadly calm. 

Once again he said in his heart, “ It is my doom. I can 
not fly; I must endure.” He had just strength to creep to 
a corner of the room, apart from all. There he sat down, 
and waited in patient, dull despair for the approach of her 
whom he still loved dearer than his life. 

There were voices without the door. Lynedon sprang 
to open it. It was in answer to his greeting that Philip’s 
half-maddened ear distinguished the first tone of that be- 
loved voice, unheard for years except in dreams. Soft it 
was, and sweet as ever, and tremulous with gladness. 

Gladness ! when she knew that he, once loved, and then 
so cruelly forsaken, was in her presence, and heard all ! 


314 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Come, let her hand go, Lynedon,” said Hugh’s voice. 
“Here are other friends, Nelly.” 

She advanced, pale but smiling — no set smile of forced 
courtesy, but one which betokened a happy heart ; her own, 
her very own smile, shining in eyes and lips, and making 
her whole face beautiful. 

Philip saw it, and then a cold mist seemed to enwrap 
him, through which he beheld men and women, and mov- 
ing lights, indistinct and vague. Yet still he sat, leaning 
forward, as though attentive to the last dull saying of his 
dull neighbor, Mr. Lancaster. 

And Eleanor ! Oh ! if he had known that in all the room 
she saw only one face — his / — that she passed Lynedon and 
the rest, hardly conscious of their greetings — that through 
them all her whole soul flew to him — him only — in a trans- 
port of rejoicing that they had met at last ! 

Yet, when she stood before him — when she held out her 
hand, she could not speak one word. She dared not even 
lift her eyes, lest she should betray the joy which was al- 
most too great to conceal. It blanched her smiling lips, 
made her frame tremble, and her voice grow measured and 
cold. 

And thus they met, in the midst of strangers, with one 
passing clasp of the hand, one formal greeting ; and then 
either turned away, to hide from the world and from each 
other at once the agony and the gladness. 

For in Eleanor’s heart the gladness lingered still. A 
momentary pang she had felt that they should meet thus 
coldly, even in outward show, but still she doubted him 
not. Philip must be right — must be true. A few minutes 
more, and he would surely find some opportunity to steal 
to her side — to give her one word — one smile, which might 
show that they were still to one another as they had been 
for years — nay, all their lives ! So she glided from the 
group around Katharine to calm her beating heart, and 
gather strength even to bear her joy. 

She sat down, choosing a place where she could see him 
who was to her all in the room — all in the world ! She 


THE OGILVIES. 


315 


watched him continually, talking or in repose. He was 
greatly altered — much older; the face harsher in its lines; 
but he was her Philip still. Gradually, amid all the change, 
the former likeness grew, and these four years of bitter 
separation seemed melted into nothing. She saw again 
the playmate of her childhood — the lover of her youth — 
her chosen husband. She waited tremblingly for him to 
come to her, to say only in one look that he remembered 
the sweet past. 

But he never came ! She saw him move, talking to one 
guest and then another. At last they all left him, and he 
stood alone. He would surely seek her now ? No, he did 
not even turn his eyes, but sank wearily into a chair, and 
above the murmur of heedless voices there came to Elea- 
nor his heavy sigh. 

She started : one moment more, and she would have cast 
aside all maidenly pride, and crept nearer to him, only to 
look in his face, and say “ Philip !” But Mrs. Lancaster 
approached him, and she heard him answering some idle 
compliments with the calmness learnt — in the heartless 
world, she thought, knowing not that love’s agony gives 
to its martyrs a strength almost superhuman, first to en- 
dure, and, then enduring, to conceal. 

She saw him speak and smile — ay, smile : an icy fear 
crept over her. It seemed the shadow of that terrible “no 
more” which sometimes yawns between the present and 
past. Let us pray rather that our throbbing hearts may 
grow cold in the tomb than that we should live to feel 
them freezing slowly in our bosoms, and be taught by their 
altered beatings to say calmly, “ The time has been” 

It so chanced that Paul Lynedon led Eleanor down to 
dinner. He did it merely because she happened to stand 
near Mrs. Ogilvie. The latter had turned from him and 
taken the arm of David Drysdale, with whom she was al- 
ready on the friendliest of terms. Katharine was always 
so especially charming in her manner to old people. 

These formed the group at the head of the table ; Philip 
sat far apart, having placed himself where he could not see 


316 


THE OGILVIES. 


the face of either Paul or Eleanor. But their tones came 
to him amid the dazzling, bewildering mist of light and 
sound ; every word, especially the rare utterances of Elea- 
nor’s low voice, piercing distinct and clear through all. 

Philip’s neighbor was Mrs. Lancaster, who, now feeling 
herself sinking from that meridian altitude which, as the 
central sun of a petty literary sphere, she had long main- 
tained, caught at every chance of ingratiating herself with 
any rising author. She mounted her high horse of senti- 
ment and feeling, and cantered it gently on through a long 
criticism of Wychnor’s last work. Then, finding the chase 
was vain, for that he only answered in polite monosylla 
bles, she tried another and less lofty style of conversation 
— remarks and tittle-tattle concerning her friends, absent 
and present. She was especially led to this by the morti- 
fication of seeing her former protege, Paul Lynedon, so en- 
tirely escaped from under her wing. 

“ How quiet Lynedon has grown !” she said, sharply. “ I 
never saw such a change. Why, he used to be quite a lion 
in society. How silent he sits between Mrs. Ogilvie and 
her sister ! By-the-by, perhaps that may account for his 
dullness to-night.” 

“ Do you think so ?” answered Philip, absently. 

“Ah! the affair was before your time, Mr. Wychnor,” 
said the lady, mysteriously ; “ but some years ago, at Sum- 
merwood, I really imagined it would have been a match 
between Miss Eleanor Ogilvie and Paul Lynedon there. 
How he admired her singing, and herself too ! Not that 
I ever could see much in either ; but love is blind, you 
know.” 

“ Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to take wine with you,” in- 
terrupted Paul, who from the other end of the table had 
caught the sound of his own name united with Eleanor’s, 
and was in mortal fear lest Mrs. Lancaster’s tenacious mem- 
ory should be recalling her former badinage on the subject. 

Philip sat silent. His cup of agony seemed overflow- 
ing. But, ere his lips approached the brim, an angel came 
by and touched it, changing the gall into a healing draught. 


THE OGILVIES. 


317 


On the young man’s agonized ear came the mention of one 
name — the name of the dead. What matter though it was 
uttered by the frivolous tongue of Mrs. Lancaster, to whom 
Leigh Penny thorne and his sufferings were merely a vehicle 
for sentimental pity ! Even while she pronounced the name, 
surely some heavenly ministrant caught up the sound, and 
caused it to fall like balm on Philip Wychnor’s heart. The 
casual words carried his thoughts away from all life’s tor- 
tures to the holy peace of death. They brought hack to 
him the dark, still room, where, holding the hoy’s damp 
hand, he had talked with him, solemnly, joyfully, of the 
glorious after-world. Then came floating across his mem- 
ory the calm river sunset — the last look at the moon-il- 
lumined, peaceful face, on whose dead lips yet lingered the 
smile of the parted soul. Even now, amid this torturing 
scene, the remembrance lifted Philip’s heart from its earth- 
ly pains toward the blessed eternity where all these should 
be counted but as a drop in the balance. 

If the thorns of life pierce keenest into the poet’s soul, 
heaven and heaven’s angels are nearer to him than to the 
worldly man. Philip Wychnor grew calmer, and his 
thoughts rose upward, where, far above both grief and 
joy, amid the glories of the Ideal and the blessedness of 
the Divine, a great and pure mind sits serene. Thither, 
when they have endured a while, does the All-compassion- 
ate, even in life, lift the souls of these His children, and 
give them to stand, Moses-like, on the lonely height of this 
calm Pisgah. Far below lies the wilderness through which 
their weary feet have journeyed. But God turns their faces 
from the past, and they behold no more the desert, but the 
Canaan. 

There was a fluttering of silken dresses as the hostess 
and her fair companions glided away. Philip did not look 
up, or he might have caught fixed on his face a gaze so full 
of mournful, anxious tenderness, that it would have pierced 
through the thickest clouds of jealous doubt and suspicion. 
He felt that Eleanor passed him by, though his eyes were 
lifted no higher than the skirt of her robe. But on her 


318 


THE OGILVIES. 


left hand, which lay like a snowflake among the black 
folds, he saw a ring, his own gift — his only one, for love 
like theirs needed no outward token. She had promised 
on her betrothal-eve that it should never be taken off save 
for the holier symbol of marriage. How could she — how 
dared she wear it now ! One gleam of light shot almost 
blindingly through Philip’s darkness as he beheld; the 
deep calm fled from his heart, and it was again racked 
with suspense. He sat motionless, the loud talk and 
laughter of Hugh Ogilvie, and the vapid murmurings of 
Mrs. Lancaster floating over him confusedly. 

Paul Lynedon had already disappeared from the dining- 
room. He could not drive from his mind the vague fear 
lest his foolish affair with Eleanor Ogilvie should be bruit- 
ed about in some way or other. He longed to stop Mrs. 
Lancaster’s ever active tongue. And, judging feminine 
nature by the blurred and blotted side on which he had 
viewed it for the last few years, he felt considerable doubt 
even of Eleanor herself. If she had betrayed, or should 
now betray, especially to Katharine Ogilvie, the secret of 
his folly ! He would not have such a thing happen for the 
world ! Wherefore he staid not to consider, for Paul’s im- 
petuous feelings were rarely subjected to much self-exam- 
ination. Acting on their impulse now, he bent his pride 
to that stronger passion which was insensibly stealing over 
him ; and first assuring himself that his fellow-adventurer 
in the drawing-room, David Drysdale, was safely engross- 
ing the conversation of their beautiful hostess, Lynedon 
carelessly strolled toward an inner apartment, divided from 
the rest by a glass door, through which he saw Eleanor, sit- 
ting thoughtful and alone. 

“Now is my time,” said Paul to himself; “but I must 
accomplish the matter with finesse and diplomacy. What a 
fool I was ever to have brought myself into such a scrape !” 

He walked with as much indifference as he could assume 
through the half-open door, which silently closed after him. 
He was rather glad of this, for then there would be no eaves- 
droppers. Eleanor looked up, and found herself alone with 


THE OGILVIES. 


319 


the lover she had once rejected. But there was no fear of 
his again imposing on her the same painful necessity, for a 
more careless, good-humored smile never sat on the face 
of the most indifferent acquaintance than that which Paul 
Lynedon’s now wore. 

“ Do I intrude on your meditations, Miss Ogilvie ? If 
so, send me away at once, which will be treating me with 
the candor of an old friend. But I had rather claim the 
privilege in a different way, and be allowed to stay and 
have a little pleasant chat with you.” 

Eleanor would fain have been left to solitude ; but 
through life she had thought of others first — of herself 
last. It gave her true pleasure, that by meeting Lyne- 
don’s frankness with equal cordiality she could atone to 
the friend for the pain once given to the lover. So she 
answered kindly, “ Indeed, I shall be quite glad to renew 
our old sociable talks.” 

“ Then we are friends — real, open - hearted, sincere 
friends,” answered Paul, returning her smile with one of 
equal candor. “ And,” he added, in a lower tone, “ to 
make our friendship sure, I trust Miss Ogilvie has already 
forgotten that I ever had the presumption to aspire to 
more ?” 

Eleanor replied, with mingled sweetness and dignity, 

“ I remember only what was pleasurable in our acquaint* 
ance. Be assured that the pain, which I am truly glad to 
see has passed from your memory, rests no longer on mine. 
We will not speak or think of it again, Mr. Lynedon.” 

But Paul still hesitated. “ Except that I may venture 
to express one hope — indeed, I should rather say a convic- 
tion. I feel sure that, with one so generous and delicate- 
minded, this — this circumstance has remained, and will ever 
remain, unrevealed ?” 

“ Can you doubt it ?” And a look as nearly approach- 
ing pride as Eleanor’s gentle countenance could assume, 
marked her wounded feeling. “ I thought that you would 
have judged more worthily of me — of any woman.” 

“ Of you, indeed, I ought. I am ashamed of myself, Miss 


320 


THE OGILVIES. 


Ogilvie,” cried Lynedon, giving way to a really sincere in> 
pulse of compunction, and gazing in her face with some- 
thing of his old reverence. “ I do believe you, as ever, the 
kindest, noblest creature — half woman, half saint ; and, ex- 
cept that I am unworthy of the boon, it would be a bless- 
ing to me through life to call you friend.” 

“ Indeed you shall call me so, and I will strive to make 
the title justly mine,” said Eleanor, with a bright, warm- 
hearted smile, as she stretched out her hand to him. 

He took it, and pressed it to his lips. Neither saw that 
on this instant a shadow darkened the transparent door, 
and a face, passing by chance, looked in. It was the face 
of Philip Wychnor ! 


CHAPTER XLII. 

Better trust all, and be deceived, 

And weep that trust and that deceiving, 

Than doubt one heart, which, if believed, 

Had blessed one’s life with true believing. 

Oh ! in this mocking world, too fast 

The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth ; 

Better be cheated to the last 

Than lose the blessed hope of truth ! 

Frances Anne Butler. 

“Well, I never in my life knew a fellow so altered as 
that Philip Wychnor!” cried Hugh, as he entered his wdfe’s 
dressing-room. His sister had fled there to gain a few min- 
utes’ quiet and strength, after her somewhat painful inter- 
view with Lynedon, and before the still greater trial of the 
formal evening that was to come. As she lay on the couch, 
wearied in heart and frame, there was ever in her thought 
the name which her brother now uttered carelessly — al- 
most angrily. It made her start with added suffering. 
Hugh continued: 

“ I suppose he thinks it is so fine to have grown an au- 
thor and a man of genius, that he may do any thing he 
• ikes, and play off* all sorts of airs on his old friends.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


321 


“ Nay, Hugh, what has he done ?” said Eleanor, her heart ' 
sinking colder and colder. 

“ Only that, after all the trouble we had to get him here 
to-night, he has gone off just now without having even the 
civility to say good-by.” 

“ Gone ! is he gone ?” and she started up ; but recollect- 
ed herself in time to add, “ You forget ; he may be ill.” 

“ 111 ? nonsense !” cried Hugh, as he stood lazily lolling 
against the window. “ Look ! there he goes, tearing across 
the Park as if he were having a walking-match, or racing 
with Brown Bess herself. There’s a likely fellow to be ill l 
Phew ! it’s only a vagary for effect — I’ve learned these 
games since I married. But I must go down to this con- 
founded soiree .” And he lounged off moodily. 

The moment he was gone, Eleanor sprang to the window. 
It was indeed Philip — she saw him clearly : his slender fig- 
ure and floating fair hair — looking shadowy, almost ghost- 
like, in the evening light. He walked rapidly — nay, flew ! 
It might have been a fiend that was pursuing him instead 
of the weeping eyes, the outstretched arms, the agonized 
murmur — “ Philip, oh ! my Philip !” 

He saw not, he heard not, but sped onward — disappeared ! 
Then Eleanor sank down, nigh broken-hearted. Was this 
the blessed meeting, the day so longed for, begun in joy, to 
end in such cruel misery ? 

No, not all misery; for when the first bitterness passed, 
and she began to think calmly, there dawned the hope that 
Philip loved her still. His very avoidance of her, that heavy 
sigh, most of all his sudden departure, as though he had 
fled unable to endure her presence — all these showed that 
his heart had not grown utterly cold. He had loved her 
once — she believed that. She would have believed it 
though the whole world had borne testimony against it, 
and against him. It was impossible but that some portion 
of this deep true love must linger still. Some unaccount- 
able change had come over him — some great sorrow or im- 
agined wrong had warped his mind. 

Was this the reason that now for weeks, months, he had 


322 


THE OGILVIES. 


never answered her letters ? Did he wish to consider their 
engagement broken ? But no ; for his last letter was full 
of love — full of the near hope of making her his own. 
Whatever had been the cause of estrangement, if the love 
were still there, in his heart as in her own, she would win 
him back yet ! 

“ Yes,” she cried, “ I will have patience. I will put from 
me all pride — all resentment. If there has been wrong, I 
will be the first to say c Forgive me !’ He is still the same 
— good and true — I see it in his face, I feel it in my soul. 
How could it be otherwise ?” 

Hugh’s half-mocking, halfiangry words concerning him 
troubled her for a moment. She heaved a low, shuddering 
sigh, and then the suffering passed. 

“ Even if so, I will not despair. Oh, my Philip, if it be 
that you are changed, that this evil world has cast its.sliad- 
ow over your pure heart, still I will not leave you ! You 
were mine — you are mine, in suffering — even in sin ! I will 
stand by you, and pray God night and day for you, and 
never — never give you up until you are my true, noble 
Philip once more.” 

She stood, her clasped hands raised, her face shining with 
. a faith all-perfect — faith in Heaven, and faith in him. Oh, 
men ! to whom woman’s love is a light jest, a haughty 
scorn, how know you but that you drive from your path- 
way and from your side a guardian presence, which, in 
blessing and in prayer, might have been for you as omnip- 
otent as an angel ? 

Mrs. Ogilvie entered, while her sister still stood, pale and 
thoughtful. Katharine was very restless — her cheek burned 
and her eye glittered. The contrast was never so strong 
between the two. 

“ Why, what is this, my dear child ?” At another time 
Eleanor would have smiled at the half-patronizing title; 
but, as the tall, magnificent-looking woman of the world 
bent over her, she felt that it was scarcely strange. She 
was indeed a child to her “ little cousin” now. Alas ! she 
knew not that Katharine would have given worlds to have 


THE OGILYIES. 


323 


taken the fresh, simple child’s heart into her racked hosom 
once more ! 

“ How quiet you are, Eleanor ! How dull this room seems, 
when we are all below so merry — so merry !” And she 
laughed that mocking laugh — an echo true as the words. 

“ Are you merry ? I am glad of it,” was Eleanor’s sim- 
ple reply. “ But you must forgive my staying here, I am 
so weary.” 

“ Weary ! I thought you happy, good, country damsels 
were never weary, as we are.” 

“We/ Nay, Katharine, are not you yourself country- 
bred, good, and happy ?” 

Again there came the musical laugh — light, but oh ! how 
bitter ! “ For the first adjective, I suppose I must acknowl- 
edge the crime, or misfortune ; for the second, you can ask 
Hugh ; for the third — well, you may ask him too — of course 
he knows ! But I must go. Will you come with me ? No ? 
Then good-by, fair coz.” 

“Sister/” was the gentle word that met Katharine as she 
was departing with the fluttering gayety she had so well 
learned to assume. And Eleanor came softly behind, and 
put her arm round the neck of her brother’s wife. 

“ Ah ! yes, I forgot — of course, we are sisters now. Are 
you glad of it, Eleanor ?” 

“ Yes, most happy ! And you ?” 

Katharine looked at her earnestly, and then shrank away. 
“ Let me go ! I mean that your arm — your bracelet — hurts 
me,” she added, hurriedly. 

Eleanor removed it. Katharine paused a moment, and 
then stooped forward and kissed her cheek, saying affec- 
tionately, 

“You are a dear, good girl, as of old. You will bear 
with me, Nelly ? Iam tired— perhaps not well. This gay 
life is too much for me.” 

“Then why — ” 

“ Ah ! be quiet, dear,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, tapping Elea- 
nor’s shoulder with her perfumed fan. “ You shall lecture 
me to-night, when I have sent away these people — that is, 


324 


THE OGILVIES. 


my guests,” she continued, remembering who was of the 
number. And as she went away, Katharine could almost 
have cut out her own tongue, that had carelessly ranked 
Paul Lynedon in the tribe thus designated. Though made 
a slave, he was an idol still. 

For an hour longer Eleanor sat alone by the window, 
sometimes trying to calm her spirit with looking up at the 
deep peace of the moonlight sky, and then watching the 
carriages that rolled to the door, bearing away guest after 
guest. The last who left departed on foot. Eleanor dis- 
tinguished his tall figure passing hastily through the little 
shrubbery, and fancied it was like Mr. Lynedon’s. But she 
thought little on the subject, for immediately afterward her 
sister entered. 

Katharine stood at the door, the silver lamp she held 
casting a rich subdued light on her face and person. She 
wore a pale amber robe, and a gold net confined her hair. 
Save this, she had no ornament of any kind. She took a 
pride in showing that her daring beauty scorned all such 
adjuncts. Well she might, for a more magnificent creature 
never rode triumphant over human hearts. 

Even Eleanor — lifting up her meek, sorrowful gaze — ac- 
knowledged this. 

“ Katharine, how beautiful you have grown ! You see 
my prophecy was right. Do you remember it, that night 
at Summerwood, when the Lancasters first came, and Mr. 
Lynedon ?” 

The silver lamp fell to the floor. 

There was a minute’s silence, and then Katharine rekin- 
dled the light, saying gayly, 

“ See, my dear, this comes of standing to be looked at 
and flattered. But I will have your praise still : now look 
at me once more !” 

“ Still beautiful — most beautiful ! perhaps the more so 
because of your paleness. Yellow suits well with your 
black hair.” 

“ Does it ?” 

“And how simple your dress is ! no jewels? no flowers?” 


THE OGILVIES. 


325 


“ I never wear either. I hate your bits of shining stone, 
precious only because the world chooses to make them 
rare ; and as for flowers, I trod down my life’s flowers long 
ago.” 

The indistinct speech was lost upon Eleanor’s wandering 
mind. She made no answer, and the two sisters-in-law sat 
for some minutes without exchanging a word. At last 
Eleanor said, 

“ Will not Hugh or Sir Robert come in and speak to us 
before we all go to rest ?” 

“ Sir Robert ? Oh, he retired an hour ago ; he keeps 
Summerwood time. As for Hugh, I doubt if either wife 
or sister could draw him from his beloved cigars and 
punch. Don’t flatter yourself with any such thing ; I fear 
you must be content with my society.” 

“Indeed I am,” said Eleanor, affectionately laying her 
hand on Katharine’s arm. 

She shrank restlessly beneath the touch; but the mo- 
ment after she leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder; 
and though she was quite silent, neither moved nor sob- 
bed, Eleanor felt on her neck the drop of one heavy, burn- 
ing tear. 

“ My own sister ! my dear Katharine ! are you ill — un- 
happy ?” 

“No, no; quite well — quite happy. Did I not say so? 
I think few mistresses of such a gay revel as ours could re- 
tire from it with so fresh and blithe a face as mine was 
when you saw it at the door. Still, I own to being rather 
tired now.” 

“ Will you go to rest ?” 

“ No, not just yet. Come, Eleanor, shall we sit and talk 
for half an hour, as we used to do ? Only first I will shut 
out the moonlight, it looks so pale, and cold, and melan- 
choly. Why, Nelly, when you stood in it I could almost 
have thought you a ghost — the ghost of that old time ! 
What nonsense I am saying !” 

She rose up quickly, drew the curtains, and the chamber 
remained lit only by a taper at the farther end. 


326 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ I can not endure this darkness ; I will call for lights. 
But no, it is better as it is. Did you ever know such a fit- 
ful, restless creature ?” continued she, throwing herself on 
the ground at Eleanor’s feet. “ But I am quiet now — for 
a little ; so begin. What are you thinking about ?” 

“ Of how strangely things change in life. Who would 
have thought that the little Katharine I used to play with, 
and lecture, and wonder at — for I did wonder at you some- 
times — would have grown into this Katharine ?” 

“ Ay, who would have thought it ?” 

“And still more, that she should be Hugh’s wife — my 
sister ; and I never guessed that you loved one another ! 
Indeed, I thought — ” 

“ What did you think ? tell me,” said Katharine, sud- 
denly. 

“That you would certainly have chosen — not dear, quiet, 
gentle Hugh, but some hero of romance.” 

“ Ha, ha ! you were mistaken then.” 

“ Yes, truly. Yet she was a little dreamer, was the dear 
Katharine of Summerwood ! How well I remember the 
night we sat together, as we do now, talking of many 
things — of Mr. Lynedon especially. Oh, Katharine, we 
are both changed since then !” said Eleanor, sadly, as her 
memory flew back, and her own sorrows once more sank 
heavy on that gentle heart, so ready to forget itself in and 
for others. 

Katharine lay silent, and without moving — only once 
she shivered convulsively. 

“ How cold you are — your hands, your neck ! Let me 
wrap you in this shawl,” Eleanor said. “ And, indeed, I 
will not keep you talking any longer. Be good, dear, and 
go to rest !” 

“ Rest ! O God ! that I could rest — forever !” was the 
smothered moan that broke from Katharine’s lips. 

“ What were you saying, love ?” 

“ Only that I will do any thing you like, Eleanor. But 
I am forgetting all my duties. Come, I will see you to 
your room.” 


THE OGILYIES. 


327 


She rose up, and the two sisters passed thither — affec- 
tionately too, with linked arms. 

“Now, dearest Katharine, you will promise me to go to 
bed and sleep ?” 

“Yes, yes — only let me breathe first.” She threw open 
the window, and drank in, almost with a gasp, the cool 
aight-air of summer. Eleanor came beside her; and so 
they stood, the peaceful heaven shining on both, with its 
moonlight and its stars. Then Katharine drew her sister’s 
face between her two hands, and said, 

“ There, now you look as when I saw you at the window 
to-night — pale, pure, like a warning spirit, or an angel. I 
think you are both ! And I — Eleanor, remember, in all 
times, under all chance or change, that I did love you — I 
shall love you — always.” 

The smile — that unearthly, almost awful smile, passed 
from her face, showing what was left when the fitful gleam 
had vanished — a countenance of utter despair ! But it was 
turned from Eleanor — she never saw it. Had she done so, 
perhaps — But no, it was too late ! 

“ I believe you love me, dearest, as I you,” she answered, 
tenderly ; “ we are sisters now and forever. Good-night !” 

They kissed each other once more, and then Katharine 
turned away, but on the threshold her foot stayed. 

“ Eleanor !” 

Eleanor sprang toward her. 

“You say your prayers every night, as children do — as 
we did together once, when I was a little child? Well, 
say for me to-night, as then, 1 God bless’ — no, no — ‘ God 
take care of Katharine !’ ” 

Ere she glided away, she lifted her eyes upward for a 
moment, and then, leaning back, closed them firmly. El- 
eanor never again saw on her face that quiet, solemn look 
— never — until — 

22 


328 


THE OGILYIESe 


CHAPTER XLm. 

We women have four seasons, like the year. 

Our spring is in our lightsome, girlish days. 

When the heart laughs within us for sheer joy. 

Summer is when we love and are beloved. 

Autumn, when some young thing with tiny hands 
Is wantoning about us, day and night ; 

And winter is when those we love have perished. 

Some miss one season — some another ; this 
Shall have them early, and that late ; and yet 
The year wears round with all as best it may. 

Philip Bailey. 

Hugh and his sister breakfasted alone together. Sir 
Robert had gone through that necessary ceremony an 
hour before, and retired to his legislative duties. Poor 
man ! he spent as much time in trying to bind up the 
wounds of the nation as though the sole doctor and nurse 
of that continually-ailing patient had been Sir Robert Ogil- 
vie, Bart., M.P., of Summer wood Park. 

“You needn’t look for Katharine,” said the husband, 
half sulkily, half sadly ; “ she never appears till after elev- 
en. Nobody ever does in London, I suppose — at least no- 
body fashionable. Sit down, Eleanor, and let me for once 
be saved the trouble of pouring out my own coffee.” 

So the brother and sister began their tdte-d-tete. It was 
rather an uninteresting one, for Hugh, after another word 
or two, buried himself in the mysteries of Bell's Life , from 
which he was not exhumed until the groom sent word that 
Brown Bess was waiting. 

“ Good-by, Nell. You’ll stay till to-morrow, of course ? 
Uncle won’t go back to Summerwood before then.” And 
he was off, as he himself would characteristically have ex- 
pressed it, “ like a shot.” 

Ties of blood do not necessarily constitute ties of affec- 
tion. The world — ay, even the best and truest part of it 


THE OGILVIES. 


329 


■ — is a little mistaken on this point. The parental or fra- 
ternal bond is at first a mere instinct, or, viewed in its 
highest light, a link of duty; but when, added to this, 
comes the tender friendship, the deep devotion, which 
springs from sympathy and esteem, then the love is made 
perfect, and the kindred of blood becomes a yet stronger 
kindred of heart. But unless circumstances, or the nature 
and character of the parties themselves, allow opportunity 
for this union, parent and child, brother and sister, are as 
much strangers as though no bond of relationship existed 
between them. 

Thus it was with Eleanor and Hugh. They regarded 
one another warmly; would have gladly fulfilled any duty 
of affection or self-sacrifice — at least, she would ; but they 
had lived apart nearly all their lives: Hugh nurtured as 
his uncle’s heir — Eleanor, the companion of her widowed 
mother, on whose comparatively lowly condition the rest 
of the Ogilvie family somewhat looked down. In charac- 
ter and disposition there was scarcely a single meeting 
link of sympathy between them ; and though they had al- 
ways loved one another with a kind of instinctive affection, 
yet it had never grown into that devotion which makes 
the tie between brother and sister the sweetest and dear- 
est of all earthly bonds, second only to the one which 
Heaven alone makes — perfect, heart-united marriage. 

Eleanor sat a while, thinking with a vague doubt that 
this was not the sort of marriage between her brother and 
her cousin. But she was too little acquainted with the 
inner character of either for her doubts to amount to fear. 
They quickly vanished when Hugh’s wife came in, so smil- 
ing, so full of playful grace, that Eleanor could hardly be- 
lieve it was the same Katharine whose parting look the 
previous night had painfully haunted her, even amid her 
own still more sorrowful remembrances. 

“ What ! your brother gone, Kelly? Why, then, I shall 
have you all to myself this morning. So come, bring your 
work — since you are so countrified as to have work — and 
let us indulge in a quiet chat before any one comes.” 


330 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ Have you many visitors, then ?” 

“Oh, the Lancasters might call, after last night, you 
know; or Mr. Lynedon” (she said the name with a reso- 
lute carelessness) ; “ or even — though it is scarce likely — 
your old friend and my new one, Mr. Philip Wychnor.” 

There was no answer. Katharine amused herself with 
walking to the window, and teazing an ugly pet parrot. 
Poor exchange for the merry little lark that, happy in its 
love-tended captivity, sang to the girl Katharine at Sum 
merwood ! Eleanor, glad of any thing to break the si 
lence, inquired after the old favorite. 

“ Dead !” was the short, sharp answer. The word and 
its tone might have revealed a whole life’s mystery. 

“ But, Eleanor,” she added, in a jesting manner, “ you 
always talk of the past — generally a tiresome subject. 
Let us turn to something more interesting. For instance, 
I want to hear all yon know about Philip Wychnor. No 
wonder you like him : I do already. How long have you 
known him ?” 

“Nearly all our lives.” 

This truth — Eleanor could not, would not, speak aught 
but the truth — was murmured with a drooping and crim- 
soning cheek. She revealed nothing, but she was unable 
to feign : she never tried. 

“ Eleanor !” said Katharine, catching her hands, and look- 
ing earnestly in her face — “ sister ! tell me — ” 

She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant an- 
nouncing Mr. Lynedon. 

“ Let me creep away ; I am too weary to talk,” whis- 
pered Eleanor. 

“ No, stay !” The gesture was imperative, almost fierce ; 
but in a moment it was softened, and Mrs. Ogilvie received 
her guest as Mrs. Ogilvie ever did. In her easy, dignified 
mien lingered not a trace of Katharine. 

They talked for a while the passing nothings incident on 
morning visits, and then Mrs. Ogilvie noticed her sister’s 
pale face. 

“ How weary she is, poor Nelly !” — and the touch of sym* 


THE OGILVIES. 


331 


pathy which prompted the words was sincere and self-for- 
getful — “Go, love, and rest there in my favorite chair, and” 
— with a sudden smile— “ stay ! take this book, also a fa- 
vorite ; you will like it, I know.” 

It was a new volume, and bore Philip Wychnor’s name 
on the title-page. There, sitting in the recess, Eleanor read 
her lover’s soul. It was his soul; for a great and true 
author, in all he writes, will still reflect the truth that is 
within him — not as the world sees, but as Heaven sees. 
Man, passing by on the broad wayside, beholds only the 
battered leaves of the unsightly, perhaps broken flower; 
but God’s sun, shining into its heart, finds beauty, and 
draws thence perfume, so that earth is made to rejoice in 
what is poured out unto heaven alone. 

It is a merciful thing, that when fate seals up the full 
bursting tide of human hopes and human yearnings in a 
great man’s soul, the current, frozen for a time, at length 
flows back again to enrich and glorify, not his poor earthly 
being, but that which will endure forever — his true self — 
his genius. And so this his work, whatever it be, stands 
to him in the place of all that in life is lost, or never real- 
ized; becomes to him love — hope — joy — home — wife — 
child — every thing. 

Something of this Philip Wychnor had already felt. His 
work was his soul, poured out, not for the petty present 
circle of individual praise, that Mr. This might flatter, and 
Mrs. That might weep over his page, but for the great wide 
world, wherein the true author longs to dwell — the hearts 
of kindred sympathy, throbbing every where and in all 
time. He wrote that he might, in the only way he could, 
make his life an offering to Heaven, and to the memory of 
that love which was to him next heaven. He wrote, too, 
that, going down to the grave lonely and childless, as he 
deemed it would be, he might thus leave behind him a por- 
tion of his soul — that soul which through life had kept 
pure its faith in God and her. 

And so, looking on his writings, the woman he loved 
read his heart. She discerned, too — as none but she could 


332 


THE OGILVIES. 


—his long patience, his struggles, his enduring love. All 
was dim, even to her, still groping blindly in a mesh of cir- 
cumstances. But thus far she read — the unchanged purity 
of his noble nature — his truth, his faithfulness, and his love 
— love for her, and her alone ! She knew it, she felt it 
now. 

A deep peace fell upon her spirit. She read over and 
aver again many a line — to the world, nothing — to her, 
sweet as Philip’s own dear voice, hopeful as the love which 
answered his. Alas that he knew it not ! She closed the 
book, and leaned back with a peaceful, solemn joy. As she 
did so, there came to her heart a strong faith — a blessed 
forewarning — such as Heaven sometimes sends amidst all- 
conflicting destinies, that one day Philip would be her hus- 
band, and she his wife — never to be sundered more ! Never 
— until the simple girl and boy, who once looked out to- 
gether dreamily into life’s future, should stand, still to- 
gether , on its verge, looking back on the earthly journey 
traversed hand-in-hand; and forward, unto the opening 
gates of heaven. 

Absorbed in these thoughts, she had almost forgotten 
the presence of Katharine and Lynedon, until the former 
stood behind her chair. 

“ What, Nelly in a reverie ? I thought dreaming invari- 
ably ended with one’s teens. Is it not so, Mr. Lynedon ?” 
And she turned to Paul, who was standing a little aloof, 
turning over books and newspapers in an absent, half-vexed 
manner. But he was beside Katharine in a moment, never- 
theless. 

“ You were speaking to me?” 

“Yes; but my question was hardly worth summoning 
you from those interesting newspapers, in which a future 
statesman must take such delight,” said Katharine, with an 
air of careless badinage , which sat on her, like all her va- 
rious moods, ever gracefully. “ I really should apologize 
for having entertained you for the last quarter of an hour 
with that operatic discussion concerning my poor ill-used 
favorite, Giuseppe Verdi. Do I linger properly on those 


THE OGILYIES. 


333 


musical Italian syllables ? Answer, you Signor fresh from 
the sweet South.” 

“ Every thing you do 
Still betters what is done,” 

was Lynedon’s reply ; too earnest to be mere compliment. 

But Mrs. Ogilvie mocked alike at both — or seemed to 
mock, for her eye glittered even as she spoke. “ Come, Elea- 
nor, answer ! Here is Mr. Lynedon quoting, of course for 
your benefit, since, if I remember right, your acquaintance 
began over that very excellent but yet somewhat overlaud- 
ed individual, Mr. William Shakspeare.” 

“ You remember !” said Paul, eagerly, and in a low tone; 
“ do you indeed remember all that time ?” 

Katharine’s lips were set together, and her head turned 
aside. But immediately she looked upon him coldly — 
carelessly — too carelessly to be even proud. “‘All’ is a 
comprehensive word; I really can not engage to lay so 
heavy a tax on my memory, which was never very good — 
was it, Eleanor ?” 

Eleanor smiled. And then, making an effort, she began 
to talk to Mr. Lynedon about the old times and Summer- 
wood, until the arrival of another visitor. 

Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne glided into the room in all 
the grace of mourning attire, the most interesting and 
least woe-begone possible. Never did crape bonnet sit 
more tastefully and airily, and certainly never did it shade 
a blither smile. The cousins met, as cousins do who have 
proved all their life the falsity of the saying, that “ bluid is 
thicker than water.” 

“Well, Miss Ogilvie (I suppose the ‘Eleanor’ time is 
past now),” said Mrs. Frederick, in a dignified parenthesis, 
“ here we are, you see, all married — I beg your pardon — 
except yourself. What a pity that you should be left the 
last bird on the bush !” 

“If you attach such discredit to the circumstance, I think 
I may venture to say for Eleanor that it must be entirely 
her own fault,” said Katharine, in the peculiar tone with 
which she always suppressed her cousin’s ill-natured speech- 


334 


THE OGILVIES. 


es. The chance words brought the color to Eleanor’s cheek, 
and made Paul Lynedon fidget in his chair. For the twen- 
tieth time he said to himself, “ What a fool I was !” 

“ Oh, no doubt — no doubt she has had some offers. I 
dare say she finds it pleasant and convenient to be an old 
maid ; she certainly looks very well, and tolerably happy, 
considering. And now, Miss Eleanor, since I have paid 
you this pretty compliment, have you never a one for me ? 
Do I look much older, eh ?” 

“ People do not usually grow aged in four or five years,” 
said Eleanor, hardly able to repress a smile. 

“ Oh dear no ! Aged ! how could you use the odious 
word ! But still, I thought I might seem altered, especial- 
ly in this disagreeable mourning.” 

“ I was afraid, when first you entered — ” began Eleanor, 
looking rather grave. 

“ Nay, you need not pull a long face on the matter. It’s 
only for my brother-in-law — Leigh Penny thorne.” 

“ Leigh ! Is poor Leigh dead ?” cried Eleanor. And, with 
the quick sympathy of love which extends to all near or 
dear to the beloved, she felt a regret, as though she had 
known the boy. 

“ Oh, he died two months since — a great blessing too. 
He suffered so much, poor fellow !” added Mrs. Frederick, 
catching from the surprised faces of her two cousins a hint 
as to the finishing of her sentence. 

“ I was not aware, Eleanor, that you knew this poor boy, 
in whom I too have been interested,” said Katharine. 

“ I have heard of him a good deal.” 

Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at her sister’s blushing countenance, 
and said no more. 

“Interested !” continued Isabella, catching up the word ; 

1 1 can’t imagine, and never could, what there was inter- 
esting in Leigh; and yet every body made a fuss over 
him, especially that Mr.Wychnor. You know him, Katha- 
rine — a quiet, stupid sort of young man ?” 

“ You forget, Isabella, this gentleman happens to be my 
friend, and also that of Mr, Lynedon,” was Mrs. Ogilvie’s re* 


THE OGILVIES. 


333 


ply. Her cousin, who had not noticed Mr. Lynedon, bent 
with mortified apology to the “ very distingue- looking” per- 
sonage who stood in the shadow of the window ; and, in 
an eager effort to follow up the introduction by conver- 
sation, Mrs. Frederick’s vapid ideas were soon turned from 
their original course. 

She succeeded in getting through, as hundreds of her 
character do, another of the hours which make up a whole 
precious existence. But it is perhaps consolatory to think 
that those by whom a life is thus wasted are at all events 
squandering a capital which is of no use to any one — not 
even to the owner. There are people in this world who 
almost make one question the possibility of their attaining 
another. Their souls go like the beasts’ — downward; so 
that even if their small spark of immortality can survive 
the quenching of the body, one doubts if it would ever feel 
either the torture of Purgatory or the bliss of Paradise. 

But she seemed determined to outstay Mr. Lynedon, so 
contented herself with impressing on her hearers the mel- 
ancholy warning of her departure once every five minutes. 

“And besides, my dear Mrs. Ogilvie” — Isabella some- 
times bestowed the Mrs ., which she was most punctilious 
in exacting — “I wanted you to help me through a dull 
visit on my mother-in-law : but of course you can’t come ; 
only if, as Fred — the ill-natured creature ! — has taken the 
carriage to Hampton — ” 

“I will order mine for you,” said Katharine, with the 
faintest possible smile. “ I am engaged myself ; but, Elea- 
nor, a drive would do you good. Will you take my place, 
and visit poor Mrs. Pennythorne ?” It was a sudden and 
kindly thought, which found its grateful echo in the thrill 
of Eleanor’s heart. 

Alas ! that through life those two had not known each 
other better, that they might have loved and sustained 
each other more. 

Paul still lingered, trespassing on the utmost limits of 
etiquette, to gain another half hour — another minute, of 
the presence which was already growing more and more 
P 2 


336 


THE OGILVIES. 


attractive — nay, beloved ! As Katharine bade adieu to 
her cousin and Eleanor, she turned to him: “Mr. Lyne- 
don, may I, as a friend, appropriate your idle morning, and 
ask you to become knight-errant to these fair ladies ?” 

He bowed, wavering between disappointment and pleas- 
ure. The latter triumphed: that winning manner — the 
gentle name of “ friend” — would have sent him to the 
very end of the earth for her sake, or at her bidding. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

Know what love is — that it draws 
Into itself all passion, hope, and thought ; 

The heart of life, to which all currents flow 
Through every vein of being — which if chilled, 

The streams are ice forever! — Westland Marston. 

Mrs. Frederick Penkythorne, in high good -hum or 
and good spirits, played off every feminine air of which 
she was mistress, for the especial benefit of Mr. Lynedon. 
She was one of those women to whom nothing ever comes 
amiss that comes in a coat and hat. The passive recipient 
of these attentions received them at first coldly, and after- 
ward with some amusement, for, despite his dawning pas- 
sion, Lynedon could not already deny his nature. He was 
but a man — a man of the world — and she a pretty woman ; 
so he looked smiling and pleased — ready to snatch an hour’s 
idle amusement, which would be utterly forgotten the next. 

Oh Love ! mocked at and trifled with when thou wouldst 
come as an angel of blessing, how often dost thou visit at 
last — an avenging angel of doom ! 

Leaning back silent and quiet, Eleanor felt oppressed by 
an almost trembling eagerness. To tread where Philip’s 
weary feet had so often trod ; to enter the house of which 
his letters had frequently spoken ; to see the gentle and 
now desolate woman whom he had liked, and who had been 
kind to him in those sorrowful days — these were indeed 
sweet, though stolen pleasures unto his betrothed. For 
she was his betrothed still — her heart told her so ; a pass- 


THE OGILVIES. 


337 


ing estrangement could never break the faithful bond of 
years. 

Love makes the most ordinary things appear sacred. 
Simple Eleanor! to her the dull road and the glaring for- 
mal square were interesting — even beautiful. She looked 
up at the house itself with loving, wistful eyes, as though 
the shadow of Philip’s presence were still reflected there. 
She crossed the threshold where he had passed so many a 
time — the very track of his footsteps seemed hallowed in 
her sight. Oh woman ! woman ! whom idle poets cele- 
brate as a capricious goddess, how often art thou the ver- 
iest of idolaters ! 

Lynedon remained in the carriage. He never liked visits 
of condolence, or interviews at all approaching to the dole- 
ful; so he made a show of consideration for “poor Mrs. 
Pennythorne’s feelings,” and enacted the sympathizing and 
anxious friend by means of a couple of cards. 

There is a deep solemnity on entering a house over which 
the shadow of a great woe still lingers, where pale Patience 
sits smiling by the darkened hearth, giving all due welcome 
to the stranger, yet not so but that the welcomed one can 
feel this to be a mere passing interest. No tear may dim 
the eye, the lips may not once utter the name — now only 
a name — but the visitant knows that the thoughts are far 
away, far as heaven is from earth ; and he pictures almost 
with awe what must be the depth of the grief that is not 
seen. 

Eleanor and her cousin passed into the drawing-room. 
It had a heavy, damp atmosphere, like that of a room long 
closed up. 

“ How disagreeable ! They never sit in this room now, 
because of that likeness over the mantel -piece. Why 
couldn’t they have it removed, instead of shutting up the 
only tolerable room in the house?” said Isabella, as she 
drew up the Venetian blind, and partly illumined the 
gloomy apartment. 

“Is that poor Leigh ?” asked Eleanor. It was a portrait 
— a commonplace, bright-colored daub, but still a portrait 


338 


THE OGILVIES. 


— of a little child sitting on the ground, his arms full of 
flowers. “ Was it like him ?” 

“ Not a hit ; but ’tis all that is left of the boy.” 

All left ! the sole memento of that brief young life ! 
Eleanor gazed upon it with interest — even with tears. 
She was standing looking at it still when the mother en- 
tered. 

Eleanor turned and met the meek brown eyes — once 
fondly chronicled to her as being like her own ; but all 
memory of herself or of Philip passed away when she be- 
held Mrs. Pennythorne. What was earthly love, even in 
its most sacred form, to that hallowed grief, patient but 
perpetual, which to the mourner became as a staff to lean 
on through the narrow valley whose sole ending must be 
the tomb? 

Even Isabella’s careless tone sank subdued before that 
soundless footfall — that quiet voice ! She introduced her 
cousin with an awkward half-apology. 

“ I hope you will not mind her being a stranger, but” — 
here a bright thought struck Isabella — “she knows your 
great favorite, Mr. Wychnor.” 

A smile — or at least its shadow — all that those patient 
lips would ever wear on earth — showed how the mother’s 
gratitude had become affection. Mrs. Pennythorne took 
Eleanor’s hand affectionately. 

“ I don’t know if I have ever heard of you, but indeed I 
am very glad to see you, for Mr.Wychnor’s sake.” 

It was the dearest welcome in the world to Eleanor 
Ogilvie. 

“Have you seen him to-day?” pursued Mrs. Penny- 
thorne, simply ; “ but indeed you could not, for he has been 
with me all the morning. I made him stay, because he 
seemed worn and ill.” 

“ 111 !” echoed Eleanor, anxiously. But her word and 
look passed unnoticed, for Isabella was watching Lynedon 
from the window, and Mrs. Pennythorne answered uncon- 
sciously, 

“ Yes ; he has not looked well of late ; I have been quite 


THE 0GILVIES. 


339 


uneasy about him. I left him lying on the sofa in the par- 
lor. Shall we go down there now ? he will be so dull alone.” 

She led the way, Isabella reluctantly quitting her post of 
observation. 

“Always Mr.Wychnor! What a bore that young man 
is !” she observed to her cousin. But Eleanor heard noth- 
ing — thought of nothing — save that Philip was near — Phil- 
ip ill — sad ! 

So ill, so sad, that he scarce moved at the opening door, 
but lay with eyes closed heavily, as though the light itself 
were pain ; and lips pressed together, lest their trembling 
should betray, even in solitude, what the firm will had re- 
solved to conquer, forbidding even the relief of sorrow. 

For one brief instant she beheld him thus — she, his be- 
trothed, who would have given her life for his sake. Her 
heart yearned over him, almost as a mother’s over a child. 
She could have knelt beside him and taken the weary, 
drooping Jiead to her bosom, comforting and cherishing as 
a woman only can ; but — 

He saw her ! there came a momentary spasm over his 
face, and then, starting up, he met her with a cold eye, as 
he had done the night before. 

It caused her heart — that heart overflowing with tender- 
ness and love — to freeze within her. She shrank back, and 
had hardly strength to give him the listless hand of out- 
ward courtesy. He took it as courtesy — nothing more. 
And thus they met the second time, as strangers, worse 
than strangers — they who had been each other’s very life 
for so many years ! He began to talk — not with her, save 
the few words that formality exacted — but with Mrs. Pen- 
nythorne. A few frigid nothings passed constrainedly, and 
then Isabella cried out, 

“ Goodness, Eleanor, how pale you are !” 

Eleanor was conscious of Philip’s sudden glance — full of 
anxiety, wild tenderness, any thing but coldness. He half 
sprang to her side, and then paused. Mrs. Pennythorne 
observed that the room was close, and perhaps Mr.Wych- 
nor would open the window. 


340 


THE OGILVIES. 


He did so, and saw Paul Lynedon ! 

Once more his eye became cold — meaningless — stern. It 
sought Eleanor’s no more. He sat down beside Mrs. Fred- 
erick, answering vaguely her light chatter. Five minutes 
after, he made some idle excuse and left the house. 

“ What a pity, when he had promised to stay until dim 
ner-time !” said Mrs. Penny thorne. 

He had gone, then, to escape her! Eleanor saw it — knew 
it. Colder and colder her heart grew, until it felt like stone. 
She neither trembled nor wept ; she only wished that she 
could lie down and die. Thus, silent as she came — but oh ! 
with what a different silence — she departed from the house. 

To those who suffer, there is no life more bitter, more full 
of continual outward mockery, than that of an author im- 
mersed in the literary life of London. In a duller sphere 
a man may hide his misery in his chamber — may fly with 
it to some blessed country solitude — even wrap it round 
him like a mantle of pride or stupidity, and pass unnoticed 
in the common crowd. But here it is impossible. He must 
fill his place in his circle — perhaps a brilliant one ; and if 
so, he must shine too, as much as ever. He must keep in 
the society which is so necessary to his worldly prospects 
— he must be seen in those haunts which are to others 
amusement, to him business — in theatre, exhibition, or so- 
cial meeting; so at last he learns to do as others do — to 
act. It is merely creating a new self as he does a new char- 
acter ; and perhaps in time this fictitious self becomes so 
habitual, that never, save in those works which the world 
calls fiction, but which are indeed his only true life, does 
the real man shine out. 

Philip Wychnor had not gone so far as this on the track 
of simulation; day and night he prayed that it never might 
be so with him. The world had not cast upon him her 
many-colored fool’s vesture, but she had taught him so to 
wear his own robe that no eye could penetrate the work- 
ings of the heart within. He had his outward life to lead, 
and he led it — without deceit, but without betrayal of 
aught that was within. 


THE OGILVIES. 


341 


So it chanced that the self-same night, when Eleanor, 
yielding to Katharine’s restless eagerness for any thing that 
might smooth time’s passing and deaden thought, went 
with her to some place of amusement — a “ Shakspeare read- 
ing” — the first face she saw was Philip Wychnor’s. She 
saw it — not pale, worn, dejected, as a few hours since, but 
wearing the look of courteous, almost pleased attention, as 
be listened, nay, talked among a group whose very names 
brought thoughts of wit, and talent, and gayety. She look- 
ed at him — she, with her anguished, half-broken heart — he 
the centre of that brilliant circle; and then the change 
burst upon her. The Philip Wychnor of the world was not 
hers. What was she to him now ? She turned away her 
head, and strove to endure patiently, without sorrow. That 
he should be great and honored — rich in fame — ought not 
that to be happiness ? If he loved not her, she might still 
worship him. So she pressed her anguish down in the low- 
est depths of her faithful heart, and tried to make it re- 
joice in his glory ; content to be even trodden down under 
his footsteps, so that those footsteps led him unto the lofty 
path whither he desired to go. She watched him from afar— 
his kindling eye, his beautiful countenance, on which sat ge- 
nius and truth ; and it seemed to her nothing that her own 
poor unknown life, with its hopes and joys, should be sacri- 
ficed, to give unto the world and unto fame such a one as he. 

He passed from the circle where he stood, and moving 
listlessly, without looking around him, came and sat down 
beside Katharine. At her greeting he started : again— as 
if that perpetual doom must ever haunt them — the once 
betrothed lovers met. 

The play was Romeo and Juliet. They had read it 
when almost children, sitting in the palace garden ; they 
had acted it once — the balcony scene— leaning over the 
terrace wall. She wondered, Did he think of this ? But 
she dared not look at him; she dared not trust herself to 
speak. So she remained silent, and he too. Katharine sat 
between them — sometimes listening to the play, sometimes 
turning a restless, eager gaze around. 


342 


THE 0GILV1ES. 


If any, human eye could have looked into those three 
hearts, he would have seen there as mournful depths as 
ever the world’s great Poet sounded. Ay, and it would 
be so to the end of time ! Cold age may preach them 
down, worldliness may make a mock at them, hut still the 
two great truths of life are Romance and Love. 

The play ended. “ He will not come,” said Katharine, 
laughing ; “ I mean — not Hugh, but Mr. Lynedon, whom 
he said he would ask to meet us here. What shall we do, 
Eleanor? How shall we punish the false knight?” she 
continued, showing forth mockingly the real anger which 
she felt. It was a good disguise. 

Eleanor answered in a few gentle words. Philip only 
understood that they were a pleading — and for Lynedon ! 

“ Will you take the place of our faithless cavalier, and 
succor us, Mr. Wychnor ?” was Katharine’s winning re- 
quest. He could not but accede. He felt impelled by a 
blind destiny which drove him on against his will. At 
last he ceased even to strive against it. 

He accompanied the two ladies home. Then, when Mrs. 
Ogilvie, in her own irresistible way, besought him not to 
leave the rescued damsels in solitude, but to spend a quiet 
hour with herself and Eleanor, he complied passively — me- 
chanically — and entered. 

There were flowers om the table. “The very flowers, 
Eleanor, that I — or rather you — admired in the gardens 
to-day!” cried Katharine. “Well, that atones for the 
falsehood of this evening. Mr. Lynedon is a preux chev- 
alier after all. A bouquet for each ! How kind ! is it 
not ?” 

“ Yes, very !” answered Eleanor. 

“ Yes, very !” mimicked Katharine, striving to hide her 
excitement under a flippant tongue. “Upon my word, 
were I Mr. Lynedon, I should be in a state of high indigna- 
tion ! And a note, too — to me, of course. Come, will you 
answer it? No? Then I must. Talk to Mr. Wychnor 
the while.” 

She went away, humming a gay tune, tearing the en* 


THE OGILVIES. 


343 


velope to pieces: the note itself she crushed in her hand 
for the moment, to be afterward — But no eye followed 
her to that inner chamber. Alas ! every human being has 
some inner chamber of heart or home ! 

They were together at last, Philip and Eleanor, quite 
alone. He felt the fact with a shuddering fear — a vague 
desire to fly ; she, with a faint hope, a longing to implore 
him to tell her what was this terrible cloud that hung be- 
tween them; yet neither had the power to move. She 
stood — her fingers beginning, half unconsciously, to arrange 
the flowers in a vase : he, sitting at the farther end of the 
room, whither he had retired at the first mention of Lyne- 
don’s name, neither moved, nor looked, nor spoke. Grad- 
ually his hands dropped from the book he had taken; his 
face grew so white, so fixed, so rigid, that it might have 
been that of one dead. 

At the sight Eleanor forgot all coldness, bitterness, pride 
— even that reserve which some call womanly, which makes 
a girl shrink from being the first to say to her lover “For- 
give !” She remembered only that they had loved one an- 
other — that both suffered. For he did suffer ; she saw it 
now — ay, with a strange gladness, because the suffering 
showed the lingering love. The hand of one or other must 
rend the cloud between them, or it might darken over both 
their lives eternally. Should that hand be hers ? 

She thought a moment, and then prayed ! She was one 
of those little children who fear not to look up every hour 
to the face of their Father in heaven. Then she crept 
noiselessly beside her lover. 

“ Philip !” 

He heard the tremulous, pleading voice — saw the out- 
stretched hands ! Forgetting all, he would have clasped 
them, have sprung forward to her, but that he saw in her 
bosom, placed by her unconsciously in the agitation of the 
moment, the flowers — Lynedon’s flowers! Then came 
rushing back upon the young man’s soul its love and its 
despair — despair that must be hidden even from her. 
What right had he to breathe one tender word, even to 
23 


344 


THE OGILVIES. 


utter one cry of misery, in the ear of his lost beloved, when 
she was another man’s chosen bride ? The struggle, were 
it unto death, must be concealed, not only for his own 
sake, but for hers. 

He did conceal it. He took her hand — only one — and 
then let it go, not rudely, but softly, though the chilling 
action wounded her ten times more. 

“You are very kind. Thank you ! I hope you will be 
happy — indeed I do.” 

“ Happy ! Oh, never, never in this world !” And she 
would have sunk, but that he rose and gave her his chair. 
The action, which seemed as one of mere courtesy to any 
every-day friend, went to her heart like a dagger. 

“It is all changed with us, Philip ; I feel it is.” And she 
burst into tears. 

He felt the madness rising within him, and turned to fly. 
But he could not go and leave her thus. He came near 
once more, and said, in a low, hurried tone, 

“ I have been unkind ; I have made you weep. You were 
always gentle; I think you are so still. But I will not 
pain you any more, Eleanor — let me call you so this once, 
for the sake of the past.” 

“ The past !” she murmured. 

“You know it is the past — eternally the past. Why do 
you seek to bring it back again ? Forget it, blot it out, 
trample on it, as I do.” And his voice rose with the wild 
passion that swelled within him ; but it sank at once wher 
he met her upraised eyes, wherein the tears were frozen 
into a glassy terror. 

“ Forgive me !” he cried. “ Let me say farewell now. 
You will be happy; and I — I shall not suffer much — not 
much. Do not think of me, except in forgiveness — ” 

“ Oh, Philip, Philip, it is you who should forgive me !” 
And she extended her loving arms; but he thrust them 
back with a half-frenzied gesture. 

“ Eleanor, I thought you one of God’s angels ; but a 
demon could not tempt and torture me thus. Think what 
we once were to one another, and then of the gulf between 


THE OGILVIES. 


345 


as — a wide, fiery gulf. Do you not see it, Eleanor? I can 
not pass — I dare not. Dare you ?” 

“Yes.” 

The word was scarcely framed on her lips when Philip 
stopped it with a cry. 

“You shall not ! I will save you from yourself. I want 
no gentleness, no pity ; only let me go. Loose my hand !” 

But she held it still. 

His tones sank to entreaty. “ Eleanor, be merciful ! let 
me depart ; I can be nothing to you now. I would have 
been every thing, but it is too late. You hold me still ? 
How can you — how dare you — when there is one who 
stands betw r een us . Ah ! you drop my hand now ! I 
knew it !” 

He stood one moment looking m her face. Then he 
cried, passionately, 

“ Eleanor — mine once, now mine no more — though mis- 
ery, torture, sin itself, are between us, still, for the last time, 
come !” 

He opened his arms and strained her to his heart so 
tightly that she almost shrieked. Then he broke away, 
and fled precipitately from the house. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

Go — be sure of my love — by that treason forgiven ; 

Of my prayers — by the blessings they bring thee from heaven ; 

Of my grief : — judge the length of the sword by the sheath’s. 

By the silence of life — more pathetic than death’s. 

E. B. Browning. 

Eleanor Ogilvie’s love was like her nature — calm, 
silent, deep. It had threaded the whole course of her life, 
not as a bursting torrent, but a quiet, ever-flowing stream 
“ that knew no fall.” When the change came, all the fresh- 
ness and beauty passed from her world, leaving it arid and 
dry. She made no outward show of sorrow, for she deemed 
it alike due to Philip and herself that whatever had come 
between their love to end it thus, it should now be buried 


346 


THE OGILVIES. 


out of sight. If indeed his long silence had hut too truly 
foretold his change toward her, and, as his broken words 
faintly seemed to reveal, some other love had driven her 
from his heart — or, at least, some new bond had made the 
very memory of that olden pledge a sin — was the deserted 
betrothed to lay bare her sufferings, to be a mark for the 
pointed finger of scornful curiosity, and the glance of in- 
trusive pity? And, still more, was she to suffer idle tongues 
to bring reproach against him ? Her heart folded itself 
over this terrible grief as close as — nay, closer than over 
its precious love, even as the cankered leaf gathers its fibres 
nearer together to hide the cause which eats its life away. 
She moved about the house at Summerwood, living her 
outward daily life of gentle tendance on the desolate and 
complaining Lady Ogil vie; ever the same ministering angel, 
as it seemed her fortune always to be, toward one sufferer 
or another. And so it is with some, who have themselves 
already drained to the dregs the cup of affliction. But He 
who sees fit to lift unto their lips the vinegar and the gall, 
also places in their hands the honey and balm which they 
may pour out to others. 

At times, when in the night-time her pent-up sorrow ex- 
pended itself in bitterest tears, or when in the twilight she 
sat by Lady Ogilvie, whose complaints were then hushed 
in the heavy slumber of weakness and old age, Eleanor’s 
brain wearied itself with conjectures as to what this terri- 
ble mystery could be ; this “ gulf” of which Philip had 
spoken, which neither he nor she must dare to cross. Ever 
and anon there flashed upon her memory his wild tones 
and gestures — his half-maddened looks. They effaced the 
thoughts which had once brought comfort to her. Could 
it be with him as with other men of whom she had heard 
— that his face and his writings alike gave the lie to his 
heart? — without, all fair; within, all foulness and sin? 
Could it be that her own pure Philip was no more, and in 
his stead was an erring, world-stained man, to whom her 
sight had brought back remorsefully the innocent days of 
old? 


THE OGILVIES. 


347 


* Oh no ! not that. Let me believe any thing but that!” 
moaned Eleanor, as one evening, when she sat all alone by 
Lady Ogilvie’s couch, these thoughts came, wringing her 
very soul ! “ Oh, my Philip ! I could bear that you should 
love me no more — that another should stand in my place, 
and be to jou all I was, and all I hoped to be — but let me 
not think you unworthy. It would kill me ; I feel it 
would!” And she leaned her head against the cushion 
af the sofa, and gave way to a burst of agonizing sobs. 
They half amused Lady Ogilvie, who moved, and said 
dreamily, 

“ Katharine, my child! What! are you crying? You 
shall not be married unless — Ah ! Eleanor, it is you ! I 
might have remembered that it was not Katharine — she 
never comes to sit by her mother now.” 

The sad voice went to Eleanor’s heart, even amidst her 
own sorrow. Struggling, she repressed all utterance of 
the grief which her aunt had not yet seen, and leaned over 
her tenderly. 

“Katharine will come soon, I know. I am sure she 
would be here to-morrow if she thought you wished for 
her. Shall we send ?” 

“No, no; I have no right now. She has her husband, 
and her friends, and her gayeties. She hates Summer wood 
too ; she told me she did. And I was so anxious for her 
marriage with Hugh, that she might still live here, and no 
one might come to part my child from me. I did not think 
she would have gone away of her own accord.” 

Eleanor, as she stood by Lady Ogilvie’s couch, thought 
of her own mother, now safe in heaven, from whom, while 
life lasted, neither fate nor an erring will had ever taken 
away the clasp of a daughter’s loving arms. And while, 
strong through the dividing shadow of death— of intervem 
ing years — of other bonds and other griefs — shone the 
memory of this first, holiest love, she lifted her heart with 
thankful joy that her work had been fulfilled. From the 
eternal shore, the mother now perchance stretched forth, 
to the struggling and suffering one, her spirit-arms, mur- 


348 


THE OGILVIES. 


muring, “My child — my true and duteous child — I wait 
for thee ! Be patient, and endure !” 

Lady Ogilvie felt her hand taken silently. What word 
of consolation could have broken in upon the deserted 
parent’s tears? But the touch seemed to yield comfort. 
“You are a kind, dear girl, Eleanor; I am very glad to 
have you here. I think you do me good. Thank you !” 

Eleanor kissed her aunt’s cheek, and was then about to 
sit down by the couch on a little ottoman, when Lady 
Ogilvie prevented her. 

“Not there — not there. Katharine always liked to sit 
beside me thus. She does not care for it now ; but no one 
shall have Katharine’s place — no, no!” And the poor 
mother again began to weep. 

Eleanor took her seat at the foot of the sofa in compas- 
sionate silence. 

“ Dear aunt,” she whispered at length, “ your Katharine 
loves you as much as ever. You must not think her lost 
to you because she is married.” 

“ Ah ! that is what people say. I once said the same 
myself to a mother at her child’s wedding. Let me see — 
who was it ?” and her wandering thoughts seemed eagerly 
to catch at the subject. “ Yes, I remember now, it was on 
Bella’s wedding-day, and I was talking to her husband’s 
mother. Poor Mrs. Pennythorne ! She made me feel for 
her, for she, too, had one child — a son, I think. She said he 
must bring his wife home, because she could not bear to 
part with him. I wonder if she ever did !” 

“ Yes !” said Eleanor, softly. 

“Then her son is as unkind as my Katharine. He for- 
gets his mother. Poor thing ! poor thing ! She is left all 
alone, like me !” 

“ Not so ; far lonelier,” said Eleanor’s low voice. “ Her 
son is dead.” 

“ Dead ! dead !” cried Lady Ogilvie ; “ and I have still 
my Katharine well and happy. God forgive me ! I will 
never murmur any more.” And she lay back in silence 
for many minutes. Then she said, 


THE OGILVIES. 


349 


“ Eleanor, I should like to hear more about that poor 
mother. Where did you learn these news of her?” 

“I saw her when I was in London, three weeks since,” 
answered Eleanor, in a tremulous voice, remembering what 
years of sorrow she had lived in those three weeks. 

“ Poor Mrs. Pennythorne ! I wish I could talk to her. 
Do you think she would come and see me? It might do 
her good.” 

Eleanor gladly seconded the plan ; and surely she might 
be forgiven if there flashed across her mind the thought 
that through this channel might come tidings of Philip 
Wychnor. 

A few days more, and she had succeeded in accomplish- 
ing her aunt’s desire. Mrs. Pennythorne, wondering and 
shrinking, crept silently into the room, scarcely believing 
that the sickly woman who at her entrance half arose from 
the couch could be the tall and stately Lady Ogilvie. Still 
more surprised was she when Katharine’s mother, glancing 
at her black garments, and then for an instant regarding 
her pale, meek face, grief-worn but calm, laid her head on 
Mrs. Pennythorne’s shoulder and burst into tears. 

Then to the mother of* the Dead came that new strength 
and dignity born of her sorrow ; and she who had given 
her one lamb from her bosom to be sheltered in the eternal 
fold, spoke comforting words unto her whose grief was for 
the living gone astray. They talked not long of Katharine, 
but passed on to the subject that was now rarely absent 
from Mrs. Pennythorne’s lips, and never from her heart, 
though it dwelt on both with a holy calmness, and with- 
out pain. She spoke of Leigh — of all that was good and 
beautiful in himself, of all that was hopeful in his death. 
And amid the simple and touching story of his illness and 
his going away — she spoke of the last parting by no harsher 
word — she continually uttered, and ever with deep tender- 
ness and thankful blessings, one name — the name of Philip 
Wychnor. 

Half hidden in the window, Eleanor listened to the tale 
which the grateful mother told. She heard of Philip’s 


350 


THE OGILVIES. 


struggles, of his noble patience, of those qualities which 
had awakened in poor Leigh such strong attachmeut, and 
afterward of the almost womanly tenderness which had 
smoothed the sick boy’s pillow, tilling him with joy and 
peace even to the last. And then Mrs. Pennythorne spoke 
of the gentle kindness which had since led Philip, prosper- 
ous and courted as he was, to visit her daily in her loneli- 
ness with comfort and cheer. 

“My dear boy always said that Mr.Wychnor talked like 
an angel,” continued Mrs. Pennythorne. “And so he does. 
Night and day I pray Heaven to reward him for the bless- 
ings he has brought to me and mine. And though he is 
sadly changed of late, and I can see there is more in his 
heart than even i"know of, yet his words are like an angel’s 
still. May God comfort him, and bless him evermore !” 

“ Amen !” was the faint echo, no louder than a breath. 
And shrouded from sight, Eleanor, with streaming, uplifted 
eyes and clasped hands, poured forth her passionate thanks- 
giving for the worthiness of him she loved. “ He is not 
mine — he never may be ; but he is yet all I believed — 
good, pure, noble. My Philip, my true Philip, God bless 
thee ! we shall yet stand side by side in his heaven, and 
look upon each other’s face without a tear.” 

She was still in the recess when Mrs. Pennythorne en- 
tered it, her usual timid steps seeming more reluctant than 
ordinary. 

“ Your aunt would like to sleep a little, Miss Ogilvie, so 
she has sent me to you.” 

Eleanor roused herself, and spoke warmly and gratefully 
to the little quiet woman who loved Philip so well. 

“ Indeed, if it has done Lady Ogilvie any good, I am 
sure I am quite glad I came,” answered Mrs. Pennythorne. 
“Though it was a struggle, as you say, for I hardly ever 
go out now and a faint sigh passed the lips of Leigh’s 
mother. “But my husband persuaded me, and — Mr. 
Wychnor too.” 

Here she hesitated, and glanced doubtfully at Eleanor, 
as though she had something more to say, but waited for 


THE OGILVIES. 


351 


a little encouragement. It came not, however ; and Mrs. 
Pennythorne, conquering her shyness, went on : “ Mr, 
Wychnor was very kind; he brought me here — almost to 
the park gates. When he said good-by, he told me he was 
going abroad for a long time.” Eleanor started. “You 
will forgive my talking about him thus, for I imagine Mr 
Wychnor is a friend of your family, Miss Ogilvie. Indeed” 
— and, making a sudden effort, Mrs. Pennythorne fulfilled 
her mission — “ he asked me to give you this letter when I 
found you alone. And now I will go and sit by your aunt 
until she awakes,” hastily added she. 

She had said all she knew, and she had guessed but little 
more, being a woman of small penetration, and less curiosi- 
ty. But no woman, worthy the name, could have seen the 
violent agitation which Eleanor vainly strove to repress 
without gliding away, so that, whatever unknown sorrow 
there was, it might have free leave to flow. 

Philip’s letter ran thus : 

“ I pray you to forgive all I said and did that night ; I 
was almost mad ! It is not for me to occasion you any 
suffering, but you tried me so bitterly — wherefore, I can 
not tell. Knowing what we once were to one another, 
and the bar there is between us now, I pray — and you 
yourself must say amen to my prayer — that on this side 
heaven we may never meet again ! 

“I waited until these lines could reach you safely. I 
have written no name, lest any contrary chance might oc- 
casion you pain. You see I think of you even now. Fare- 
well ! farewell !” 

And this was the end — the end of all ! No more love — 
no more hope — not even the comfort of sorrow. His words 
seemed to imply that regret itself was sin. The unknown 
bar between them was eternal. He said so, and it must 
be true. Then, and not till then, came upon Eleanor the 
terrible darkness — through which Philip had once passed 
— the darkness of a world where love has been, is not, and 
will be no more forever ! The man, with his strong, great 
soul, nearer perchance to Heaven, and so interpenetrated 


352 


THE OGILVIES. 


with the divine that the earthly held but a secondary place 
therein — the man struggled and conquered. The weaker, 
tenderer woman, whose very religion was Eve-like, “ for 
God — in him” sank beneath that mighty woe. 

A little while longer Eleanor strove against her misery. 
At morning she rose, and at evening she lay down, mechan- 
ically following the round of daily occupation. At last one 
night she entered her chamber — tried to collect her wan 
dering thoughts, so that in some measure she might “ set 
her house in order,” and then laid her weary head on the 
pillow, with a consciousness that she would lift it uj) no 
more. 

All through the night it seemed a*s though a leaden hand 
pressed heavily on her brow ; she did not writhe beneath 
it, for it felt cold, calm, like the touch of Death upon the 
throbbing veins, saying “ Peace — be still !” In the dark- 
ness she saw, even with closed eyes, the shining of olden 
faces — images from those early days when the one face had 
never yet crossed her dreams. Clearer than all — its sor- 
rowful patience of earth transmuted into a heavenly calm- 
ness — she beheld her mother’s loving smile ; nay, breaking 
through the silence, her bewildered fancy almost distin- 
guished the voice, faint as when her ear drank its last ac- 
cents ere they were stilled for eternity, “ My child — my 
dear child !” 

“Mother, mother, my work is done. Let me come to 
thee !” was Eleanor’s low, yearning cry. 

And with that last memory of the solemn past shutting 
out all the anguish of the present, she passed into the wide, 
horror-peopled world of delirium. 


THE OGILVIES. 


353 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

For a fearful time 

We can keep down these floodgates of the heart; 

But we must draw them some time, or ’twill burst 
Like sand this brave embankment of the breast, 

And drain itself to dry death. When pride thaws, 

Look for floods. — Philip Bailey. 

We will pass from this scene of sorrow and darkness 
into another that seems all sunshine. Yet if, looking on 
these two phases of life, we are fain to muse doubtfully on 
the strange contrasts of human fate, let us remember that 
the clouds furling away oft leave behind them coolness and 
dew, while the sunbeams may grow into a dazzling glare, 
blinding and scorching wherever they rest. 

Day after day, week after week, Katharine Ogilvie basked 
in the new glory which had burst upon her world. Paul 
Lynedon’s influence was upon her and around her wherever 
she moved. It was the olden dream, the dream of girlhood, 
renewed with tenfold power. All her artificial self fell from 
her like a garment, and she stood before this man — this 
world-jaded, almost heartless man — a creature formed out 
of the long-past ideal of his youth — beautiful, and most 
true, whether for good or evil. There was no falseness in 
her; and that which had gathered over Paul Lynedon 
crumbled into dust and ashes before the sun-gleam of her 
eyes. His wavering nature was subdued by the energy 
of her own. Sisera-like, “ at her feet he bowed, he fell 
struck down by the fierce might of a love whose very crime 
and hopelessness bound him with closer chains. He could 
not struggle against them — he did not try. He would now 
have given half of his wasted, hollow, thoughtless existence 
to purchase one day, one hour, of this full, strong, real life 
that now thrilled his being, even though it coursed through 
every vein like molten fire. He would have laid himself 


354 


THE OGILYIES. 


down, body and soul, for her feet to trample on, rather than 
free himself from the spell wherewith she bound him, or 
pass from her presence and be haunted by her terrible pow- 
er no more. 

And this passion was so strong with him that it found 
no utterance. He sank dumb before her — in her sight he 
was humble as a little child. His lips, which to many an- 
other woman had framed the language of idle compliment, 
or of still softer and more beguiling tenderness, could not 
breathe one word that might startle the proud ear of Kath- 
arine Ogilvie. But though this mad, erring love was never 
uttered, she knew it well. The knowledge dawned upon 
her by slow degrees ; and she felt that too late — oh, fear- 
fully too late ! — the dream of her youth had been fulfilled, 
and that she was loved even as she had loved. 

What a future lay before the hapless wife whose rash 
and frenzied tongue, in taking the false vow, had given the 
lie to her heart ! A whole life of feigning ; year after year 
to wear the mask of affection, or at least of duty ; to dis- 
play the mocking semblance of a happy home — worse than 
all, to smile answeringly upon the unsuspecting face that 
was — must be forever at her side, haunting like an accusing 
spirit the wife who loved another man dearer than her hus- 
band. This must be her doom, even if, still guiltless, she 
trod her heart into ashes, and walked on with a serene eye, 
and dumb, smiling lip. But if otherwise — 

Katharine never dreamed of that. Blinded, she rushed 
to the very brink of the abyss; but there was a strong 
purity in her heart still. She did not once see the yawning 
gulf before her, for her eyes were turned beyond it — turned 
toward the pure, dream-like love, the guiding-star of her 
life, which by its unrequited loneliness had become so spir- 
itualized that the taint of earthly passion had scarcely 
touched it even now. 

It sometimes chances that the realities of wedded life, 
and the calm peace of household ties, have power to con- 
quer or stifle the remembrance of the deepest former love. 
But Katharine was so young that, although a wife, she had 


THE OGILVIES. 


355 


a girl’s heart still ; and that heart her husband never 
sought to win from its romance to the still affection of 
home. Perhaps he felt the trial was beyond his power; 
and so, content with the guarding circlet on her finger, he 
desired not from her the only thing which can make the 
marriage-bond inviolate — a wedded heart. Sometimes, for 
days and weeks together, he would go away, leaving her 
to such solitude that it almost seemed a dream, her having 
been a wife at all. 

Another tie was there wanting — another safeguard in 
this perilous, loveless home. No child had come with its 
little twining arms to draw together the two divided 
hearts, and concentrate in one parental bond the wander- 
ing love of both. Often when she paced her lonely home, 
which her husband now found far less attractive than 
Suramerwood, Katharine shuddered at the delicious poison 
which drop by drop was falling into her life’s cup, convert- 
ing even the faint affection she yet felt for Hugh into a 
feeling almost like hatred. And then the wife, terrified at 
the change that was stealing over her, dashed more and 
more into that wild whirl which people call “ society.” 

Day after day, rarely with any arranged plan, but by 
some chance coincidence springing from the combined will 
of both, she and Paul Lynedon met. Every morning when 
she rose, Katharine felt that she was sure by some hap or 
other to see him ere night. Now, for the first time in her 
life, she knew what it is to be loved ; to feel encompassed 
continually, in absence or presence, with the thoughts of 
another ; to live with every day, every hour, threaded by 
those electric links of sympathy which, through all inter- 
vening distance, seem to convey to one heart the conscious- 
ness of another’s love. Around and about her path wove 
these airy fetters, encircling her in a web through which 
she could not pass. She felt it binding her closer and 
closer; but it seemed drawn by the hand of destiny. A 
little while her conscience wrestled, then she became still 
and struggled no more. 

Against these two erring ones the world’s tongue had 


356 


THE OGILYIES. 


not yet been lifted. With others, as well as with Katha- 
rine herself, Paul Lynedon set a watch upon his lips and 
actions. He who had worn carelessly and openly the 
chains of many a light fancy, now buried this strong real 
love — the only real love of his life — in the very depths of 
his heart. Besides, his passion had sprung up, budded, 
and blossomed in a space so short that the world had no 
time to note its growth, and probably would not have be- 
lieved in its existence. But 

Love counts time by heart-throbs, and not years. 

Mrs. Lancaster — gossiping, light-tongued Mrs. Lancaster 
— visited her “ dear, talented, charming friend, Mrs. Hugh 
Ogilvie,” as frequently as ever, without seeing the haunt- 
ing shadow that, near or distant, followed Katharine wher- 
ever she moved. Indeed, the lady often made Paul writhe 
beneath her hints and innuendoes respecting his various 
flames, past and present, which she had discovered — or at 
least thought she had. 

One morning she amused herself thus during the whole 
of a long visit at which she had met Lynedon at Mrs. Ogil- 
vie’s. Paul bore the jests restlessly at first, then indiffer- 
ently ; for in the calm proud eye and slightly-curled lip of 
the sole face he ever watched, he saw that no credence was 
given to the idle tale. Katharine knew now — and the 
knowledge came mingled with remorse and despair — that 
she herself was the only woman who had ever had power 
to sway Paul Lynedon’s soul. 

The last historiette which Mrs. Lancaster fixed upon for 
the delectation of her former favorite was the suspected 
love episode with Eleanor Ogilvie. She continued the jest 
even further than she believed in it herself, as she observed, 
with malicious pleasure, that Paul seemed more than usu- 
ally sensitive on this point. 

“ I always thought, Mr. Lynedon, that there was some 
deep mystery in your sudden escapade to the Continent, 
and a friend of yours at last enlightened me a little on the 
subject. Confess, now, as we are quite alone — for Mrs, 


THE OGILVIES. 


357 


Ogilvie’s sisterly ears need not listen unless she chooses — * 
confess that your memory treasured long a certain visit at 
Summerwood, and that the meeting in London is not en- 
tirely accidental, any more than was the rencounter at 
Florence.” 

Paul Lynedon might have laughed off the accusation, 
but that Katharine’s eyes were upon him. He answered, 
earnestly, 

“ Indeed, Mrs. Lancaster, I am not accountable for any 
imputed motives. My pleasure in Miss Ogilvie’s society 
is not lessened by the fact that I have always owed it to 
chance alone. Most truly do I bear, and shall bear all my 
life” (his tone grew lower and more earnest still), “the 
memory of that week at Summerwood.” 

The dark eyes turned away, though not until he had 
seen the gleam of rapture which kindled them into dazzling 
light. 

“ But the rumor from Italy, which made us hope to see 
a Mrs. Lynedon ere long — how can you explain that ?” pur- 
sued Mrs. Lancaster, who, in resigning, perforce, the char- 
acter of a “ woman of genius,” had assumed that of the 
most annoying and pertinacious gossip who ever sinned 
against good sense and good breeding. 

“I think you are mistaken,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with some 
dignity. “J/y sister ” — (since her marriage, Katharine had 
ever most punctiliously used this title, thus gratifying at 
once her own real affection for Eleanor, and showing in the 
world’s sight that outward respect which she always paid 
to her husband) — “ my sister never met him when abroad. 
Is it not so, Mr. Lynedon ?” 

With that look meeting his, Paul for his life’s worth 
could not have uttered a falsehood. 

“ I had, indeed, the pleasure of seeing Miss Ogilvie and 
Mrs. Breynton at Florence, but — ” 

His further hurried explanation was stopped by the en- 
trance of a messenger from Summerwood, bringing tidings 
of Eleanor’s severe illness. Mrs. Lancaster, who always 
spread her wings and fled away before the least cloud of 


358 


THE OGILVIES. 


adversity, made a hasty disappearance. Katharine, start- 
led, and touched with self-reproach for the neglect which 
for weeks past had made her forget all olden ties in one 
absorbing dream, was left alone — alone, save for the one 
ever-haunting friend who now approached her. 

She started up almost angrily ; for the images of Hugh 
jmd Hugh’s dying sister were then present to the con- 
jcience-stricken wife. “You here, Mr. Lynedon ! I thought 
you had departed with Mrs. Lancaster !” 

“ How could I go and leave you thus?” said Paul, softly. 
“ Remember, it is not the first time that I have been with 
you in your sorrow.” 

Katharine looked up, to meet the same face which years 
before had bent over the trembling, weeping child ; the 
same look, the same tone, yet fraught with a tenderness 
deeper a thousand-fold. She saw it, and a strange terror 
came over her: she closed her eyes; she dared not look 
again. Pressing back all the memories that were throng- 
ing madly to her heart, she arose, saying, 

“ That is long ago — very long ago, Mr. Lynedon. I must 
now think, not of the past, but the present. My husband” 
— and she desperately tried to strengthen herself with the 
word — “ my husband is from home ; I will go to Summer- 
wood at once myself.” 

“ It is a long distance. If I were permitted to accom- 
pany — at least, to follow you in a few hours,” he added, cor- 
recting himself, “ it would give me real happiness. Indeed, 
my own anxiety — ” 

Katharine turned round suddenly with a doubtful, pen- 
etrating glance. Lynedon perceived it. 

“ You do not — you will not believe that idle tale ? You 
can not think that I — that I ever did or ever shall love any 
woman living, save — ” He paused abruptly — then eagerly 
caught her hand. 

The burning crimson rushed to Katharine’s very brow. 
A moment, and she drew her hand away ; not hurriedly, 
but with a cold, haughty gesture. She remembered still 
that she was Hugh’s wife. 


THE 0GILV1ES. 


359 


u Mr. Lynedon, you misinterpret my thoughts ; this com 
fidence was quite unnecessary, and I believe unasked. Let 
us change the subject.” 

He shrank abashed and humbled before her. Katharine 
ruled him with an irresistible sway, chaining even the tor- 
rent of passion that was ready to burst forth. And she — 
loving as she did — had strength thus to seal down his love, 
that he should not utter it. 

Soon afterward Paul Lynedon quitted her presence. She 
parted from him with a few words of gentle but distant 
kindness, which instantly lighted up his whole countenance 
with joy. But when he was gone she sank back exhaust- 
ed, and lay for a long time almost senseless. Again and 
again there darted through her side that sharp arrowy pain, 
which she had first felt after the night when a few chance 
words — false words as she now believed — had swept away 
all hope and love forever from her life. Of late this pain 
had been more frequent and intense ; and now, as she lay 
alone, pressing her hand upon her heart, every pulse of 
which she seemed to feel and hear, a thought came — solemn, 
startling ! — the thought that even now, upon her, so full of 
life, of youth, and youth’s wildest passions, might be creep- 
ing a dark shadow from the unseen world. 

For an instant she trembled ; and then the thought came 
again, bearing wdth it a flood of joy. Lifting a veil between 
her and the dreaded future, Katharine saw a shadowy hand; 
she would have fallen down and blessed it, even though it 
were the hand of death. 

“It must be so,” she said softly to herself; “I shall die 
— I shall die !” and her tone rose into a desperate joy. 
“ This long, fearful life will not be. I shall pass away and 
escape. Oh rest ! — oh peace ! — come soon — soon ! Let me 
sleep an eternal sleep ! Let me feel no more — suffer no 
more !” 

Poor struggling one — stretching thine arms from life’s 
desolate shore to the wide, dark ocean beyond — is there no 
mercy in earth or heaven for thee? Thy lips now drain 
the cup thine own hands lifted; yet, if the suffering right- 
24 


860 


THE OGILVIES. 


eous needeth compassion, surely the stricken sinner needetli 
more. 

Ye who, untempted, walk secure, with Levite step and 
averted face, noting carefully how by his own vain folly or 
wickedness your weaker brother “fell among thieves,” 
should ye not rather come with the merciful touch, the 
cleansing water, and then the oil and wine, that the erring 
one may be saved, and the heavenward road receive one 
strengthened, hopeful traveler more ? 


CHAPTER XLVH. 

“Ah ! why,” said Ellen, sighing to herself, 

“ Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge — 

Why do not these prevail, for human life 

To keep two hearts together, that began 

Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 

Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 

To grant or be received!” — Wordsworth. 

Katharine Ogilvie reached Summerwood when it was 
almost night. Over all the house there seemed a stillness 
and hush, as in a dwelling where there is one life, a precious 
life, hanging on a thread. Stealthy, noiseless footsteps — 
doors opened and closed without a sound — loud voices 
softened into anxious whispers — all showed how much 
Eleanor was beloved. Sir Robert, his parliamentary pa- 
pers and eternal blue-books lying unopened, sat talking 
with the physician, and often glancing sorrowfully at the 
neglected tea-equipage, behind which he missed the gentle 
moonlight smile of his niece, even more than the long-ab- 
sent one of his ever-ailing wife. Lady Ogilvie, unable to 
quit her couch, lay with her door opened, listening to every 
sound. Between her and the sick-chamber there moved 
continually, with light steps and mourning garments, a fig- 
ire so unobtrusive that Katharine did not for some time 
notice it. 

It was Mrs. Pennythorne. 

She had come in by chance the day after poor Eleanor 


THE OGILVIES. 


361 


had laid down her -weary head — perhaps forever. Then 
toward the sick girl the heart of the childless mother 
yearned. She became her nurse, never quitting her except 
to speak a few words of comfort to the terrified and grief- 
stricken Lady Ogilvie. In truth, Mrs. Pennythorne, meek 
and quiet as she was, had become the guiding spirit in this 
house of sickness. But she crept into her place so gradu- 
ally, and sustained it so imperceptibly, that no one ever 
thought of the fact ; and even Lady Ogilvie did not speak 
of her until she appeared, suddenly and silently, to lead 
Katharine to her sister’s room. 

Mrs. Pennythorne had at first shrunk both in timidity 
and dislike from the stylish Mrs. Ogilvie, the neglectful 
daughter of whom she had heard. But this feeling passed 
away when she saw how subdued Katharine’s manner was, 
and with what trembling steps she moved to Eleanor’s 
chamber. 

“ And you have tended her night and day — you, almost 
a stranger !” said Katharine. “ How good you are ! while 
I — ” She stopped ; for the remorse which had smitten her 
heart at the sight of her long-forsaken mother was renewed 
when she beheld the sick, almost dying girl, who, from the 
triple ties of marriage, kindred, and afiection, might well 
have claimed from her a sister’s care. 

Eleanor was sitting up in bed ; her arms extended, and 
her eyes — those once beautiful, calm eyes — glittering and 
burning with fever. She began to talk in quick, sharp, 
ringing accents. 

“ Ah ! you have been to fetch her ; I thought you would. 
I could not die without seeing Mrs. Breynton. Tell her 
she need not fear meeting him — he will not come. Philip 
will not come — never more — never more !” 

“ She often talks in this way,” whispered Mrs. Penny- 
thorne ; “ and so I am glad that no one is with her except 
myself. I do not know any thing, but I feel sure that she 
and poor Mr. Wychnor — ” 

Low' as the tone was, the words reached Eleanor’s ear. 
She turned quickly round. 


362 


THE OGILVIES. 


“ What ! do you speak about him, Mrs. Breynton ? — for 
I know you are Mrs. Breynton, though you look different 
— younger, and so beautiful ! Ah ! perhaps you have died, 
and so become a spirit like my mother ! But did you not 
pray her to forgive you for breaking her poor child’s heart ? 
We will not talk about it. Still, it was cruel of you to 
part my Philip from me.” 

“ Philip again !” said Katharine, softly. “ Ah ! I see it 
all now — I guessed it long. Is it even so with her too ! 
Eleanor, dearest !” And she spoke very tenderly. 

“Who calls me dearest? He used, once, but he will 
never call me so again. She kept me from him until his 
love has changed. I shall never be Philip’s wife now. It 
is all your work, Mrs. Breynton !” 

“I am not Mrs. Breynton. I am Katharine — your sister.” 

“ Are you ? No, no ! Katharine is Hugh’s wife — loving 
and happy.” Katharine dropped her head shudderingly. 
“She would not come here — we have only sorrow here. 
But you must not let her know — no living soul must know 
what Philip said that night — that there was a gulf — a bar 
between us. Let me whisper it, lest the world might hear, 
and call him cruel. But he is not cruel — he is all good. 
Listen !” — and she placed her lip to Katharine’s ear — “ Per- 
haps some one loved him better than he thought I did, and 
he is married — married !” 

“ Oh no, indeed, Miss Ogilvie !” broke in Mrs. Penny- 
thorne, with tears in her eyes; “Mr. Wychnor will never 
marry. He told me so one day — the very day I brought 
you his letter.” 

“Letter — his letter! Ah! I remember every word — 
every word ;” and with an accent of thrilling sorrow she 
repeated, line by line, Philip’s last farewell. “And then 
— I forget all afterward — it is darkness — darkness !” she 
moaned, while her head drooped on her bosom, and her 
eyes closed. 

Mrs. Pennythorne laid her down on the pillow, parted 
the disheveled hair, and bathed her brow with water. 
“ What a gentle, skillful nurse you are !” said Katharine, 


THE OGILVIES. 


363 


who, a stranger to scenes like this, was trembling with 
alarm and agitation. 

“ I am used to it,” was the meek, sad reply, as she bent 
over her charge. 

There was a few minutes’ silence, and then Eleanor 
opened her eyes, and regarded wistfully her tender nurse. 

“I do not know you, but you are very kind to me. Per- 
haps my mother has sent you. I hear her calling me every 
hour, but I can not go. Tell her I can not ! I must not 
die until-— until — What was it that I had to do ?” Her 
eyes wandered restlessly, and she put her hand to her 
brow. “ My head is wild ! I can not remember any 
thing ! Help me ! do help me !” And her piteous gaze 
was lifted mournfully to Mrs. Pennythorne. “Tell me 
what it is that I have to do before I die.” 

“ Repeat his name ; she will hear that,” whispered Kath- 
arine, regarding her sister with a deep sympathy unfelt be^ 
fore. 

“ Shall we send for any one — for Philip ?” gently asked 
Mrs. Pennythorne. 

“ Philip ! Why do you speak about Philip ? I dared 
not even utter his name ; Mrs. Breynton would not let me. 
Ah ! that is it !” and a delirious light shone in her face. 
“ I must see Mrs. Breynton ; I must tell her to forgive my 
Philip ! She has had her will, for we shall never marry — 
never see one another any more.” 

She ceased a moment, and then rose wildly from het 
couch. 

“You are cruel ; you will not fetch Mrs. Breynton ; and 
until I know she will forgive him, I can not die. I am 
weary — so weary — and you will not let me go to my 
mother! Do you know” — and she caught hold of Mrs. 
Pennythorne’s dress — “ I see her standing waiting for me 
- — there ! there !” 

Katharine started, for there seemed a strange reality in 
the fantasy which directed Eleanor’s fixed eyes and lifted 
finger. 

“ The room is filled with them !” continued the delirious 


364 


THE OGILVIES. 


girl. “ They come around me by night and by day — some 
dead faces, some living ; but they are all sad — like yours. 
Philip’s is there too sometimes — smiling so tenderly, as he 
used to do in the dear old palace garden. See ! he is look- 
ing on me now ! Ah ! Philip, you did love me once — you 
do love me — I read it in your eyes ; but you dare not 
speak. Then I must ! You see, dear Philip, I am calm” — 
ind her voice sank almost to its natural tones — “ as calm 
as I was that day you called me your strength, your com- 
fort. Tell me, then, what is this bar between us — when I 
am rich, when I love you, only you, my Philip, my own 
Philip !” She paused, but after a few moments’ silence 
broke once more into disconnected ravings. 

Katharine waited until the shrill tones ceased, and her 
sister fell into the heavy slumber which foretold the near 
approach of the crisis. Then she drew Mrs. Penny thorne 
aside. 

“Tell me — you know better than I — is there any hope?” 

There was hope, for youth can struggle through so 
much ; with this sleep the fever might be conquered. 

“And then she will wake — wake to what ? Death might 
be better for her than life ! it is so sometimes,” muttered 
Katharine to herself. 

Mrs. Pennythorne spoke comfortingly. She looked on 
the pale, excited face of the young wife, and forgave all 
her imagined errors. Katharine sat in deep thought with- 
out making any answer — perhaps she did not even hear. 
At last she said, suddenly and decisively, 

“Mrs. Pennythorne, you and I well understand one an- 
other. Those words which poor Eleanor has uttered you 
will keep sacred ?” 

“ Certainly. Oh, Mrs. Ogilvie, I wish indeed that Miss 
Eleanor and my dear Philip Wychnor — ” 

“ He is your friend, I believe,” interrupted Katharine. 
“ Tell me all you know about him.” 

And once more Mrs. Pennythorne gratefully dwelt on 
the history of Philip’s goodness. Then, glad to relieve her 
simple heart from a secret that weighed heavily upon it, 


THE OGILVIES. 


365 


she related all she knew about the letter, which had made 
her the unconscious messenger of so much evil. 

I did not notice then, but I remember now, how earn- 
estly he spoke, and how unhappy he seemed. I am sure 
there was something painful in that letter. I have no right 
to say a word on this subject, but I do feel toward Philip 
Wychnor as though he were my own son. If I could only 
see him happy, and Miss Ogilvie too, so good and gentle as 
she is ! The moment I saw her I felt sure of his loving 
her — he could not help it. It is a sorrowful world,” con- 
tinued she, after waiting a while for the answer, which 
Mrs. Ogilvie, absorbed in thought, withheld, “ yet if one 
could but make these two young creatures happy — ” 

“ It shall be— I will do it !” cried Katharine. “And oh !” 
she said softly to herself, as Mrs. Pennythorne glided away 
at the physician’s summons, “ if I, even I, can but leave be- 
hind me a little peace, a little happiness, surely it will prove 
some atonement. If I have sinned, though only in thought, 
against my husband, I may bring joy to the sister he loves ; 
and then I shall pass away from all, and my misery will 
cumber the earth no more.” 

With Katharine, to will was to act. She sat down and 
wrote to Mrs. Breynton, entreating, or rather commanding 
— for her earnestness seemed almost like a command — that 
she would come at once to Summerwood. Then she wrote, 
with a swift though trembling hand, a few lines — to Paul 
Lynedon ! After she had finished, she stood irresolute — 
but only for a moment. She sealed the letter, and laid it 
with the other. 

“ Yes, it shall go — I can trust him — him only. He will 
do my will, whatever it be ;” and a bitter though trium- 
phant smile curved her lips. “And he will be silent too, 
no fear ! This my act might seem strange to the world — 
perhaps to him ; but what matter, when the end comes ? 
and it is perhaps near — very near. I pray it may be so !” 
Her voice sank to an inaudible whisper ; for even then, as 
if in answer to that awful prayer, she felt the sharp death 
warning dart through her side. 


366 


THE OGILVIES. 


Next morning Paul Lynedon came. Katharine knew he 
would, and had risen long before the rest of the wearied 
and anxious household. She was walking in the avenue 
when his panting horse approached ; he leaped from it with 
a look of the wildest ecstasy. 

“ You sent for me : how good ! how kind ! What thanks 
can I give you, dear Mrs. Ogilvie — dear Katharine 

He uttered softly, almost in a whisper, the long unspo- 
ken name. She started, and drew back in proud reproof: 
“ You forget, Mr. Lynedon.” 

“ Pardon me ; I had indeed forgotten all — all but that 
happy time when I was here last. _ Would to Heaven it 
could come again, and you were once more that dear child 
who — ” 

“ A child — you thought me a child !” cried Katharine, 
with that impulse which in the early days of this second 
meeting had made her very love half vengeance, and even 
now caused her, as it were, to set herself against herself, 
the slighted girl against the worshiped woman. 

“ I thought — shall I tell you what I thought you — what 
I think you ?” said Lynedon, eagerly. 

“No !” The word reined him in his mad impulse, and 
he stood mute. 

“ Mr. Lynedon” — the calm, cold tone struck him like an 
arrow — “shall we change our conversation? Let me ex- 
plain the reason which made me trespass on your kind- 
ness.” He bowed, and walked by her side up the avenue. 

Katharine went on : “ There is something very near my 
heart in which I can trust no friend ” — she laid the faintest 
emphasis on the word — “ no friend but you. Will you — 
asking no questions, seeking no explanations — do it for me?” 

“ Will I ? you know I will !” 

“ I want you to seek for a friend of yours, or an acquaint- 
ance at least — Philip Wychnor. He is gone a journey — 
whither I know not, and have no means of knowing save 
through you. Find him; bring him hither, on what ex- 
cuse you will; or perhaps — the truth is always best — 1 
will write to him, and you shall bear the letter.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


367 


“This is all mystery; I can not fathom it,” said Paul, 
uneasily, his jealous mind at once forming the most tortur- 
ing conclusions. “ Only tell me — ” 

“ I will tell you nothing : only do this, I entreat you — 
do it for me.” And Katharine’s eagerness made her tone 
so tremulous, so bewitching, that Paul Lynedon could have 
fallen at her feet. 

“ I promise,” said he. “Heaven knows I would plunge a 
knife into my very heart if you bade me,” he added, speak- 
ing low and hurriedly. 

As low, but almost as fearful in its firmness, was Katha- 
rine’s reply : “ I might, but I would thrust it into my own 
heart next.” 

He looked at her astonished, but her face was turned 
away. The next moment she had sprung forward to meet 
her father, who crossed their path on his early morning 
walk. 

“ You have ridden over to inquire for my poor niece, 
Mr. Lynedon ?” said Sir Robert. “ How exceedingly kind 
of you ! You must stay and breakfast with us. Persuade 
him, Katharine — ” 

But Katharine had already glided away. 


CHAPTER XL YIH. 

Art thou already weary of the way ? 

Thou, who hast yet but half the way gone o’er : 

Get up and lift thy burden ! 
******* 

Say thou not sadly, “Never,” and “ No more 
But from thy lips banish those falsest words : 

While life remains, that which was thine before 
Again may be thine ; in Time’s storehouse lie 

Days, hours, and moments that have unknown hoards 
Of joy, as well as sorrow : passing by, 

Smiles come with tears. — Frances Anne Butler. 

There is scarce a town in England more suggestive of 
speculation upon what our good friend David Drysdale 
would have entitled “ the noble science of man” than that 


368 


THE OGILVIES. 


turnpike gate on the European highway — Dover. Not 
that one need pause to enumerate from Pinnock or Gold- 
smith how many kings “ landed at Dover,” or “ set sail 
from Dover.” The present is quite fruitful enough to set 
aside the past. Think of the multitude of small historiettes 
worked out here : how that, among the throng that from 
year to year pass by, are all ranks and characters — fugi- 
tive royalty ; errant nobility ; the regiment departing, its 
mournful fragments returned ; or, to descend to individu- 
als — debtor flying creditor; married lovers speeding to hap- 
piness and honeymoon; wretched and erring ones speeding 
faster still into what must be in the end a miserable doom; 
happy men seeking pleasure; sick-hearted, hopeless men 
rushing any where for oblivion. And here we pause, for 
with such a one we have to do. 

Philip Wychnor had reached Dover on his way to the 
Continent. He would have simply passed through it, long- 
ing for the moment when he should set his last footstep — 
at least the last for many years — on English shores. But 
fate — the fate which one less pious-hearted would have an- 
grily cursed — detained him for many days. He spent them 
restlessly enough, patient as he was, in his daily toil of lit- 
erary necessity — alas for the poor author! — and in evening 
wanderings about the country. Beauty he found — for a 
poet’s mind finds beauty every where — but yet he could 
not realize it. He felt upon him the commencement of that 
doom, to roam the wide world, “finding no rest for the sole 
of his foot.” 

The reviving from a great woe is sometimes worse than 
the woe itself. The world looks so blank, so dreary ; we 
see it once more; our dull eyes even acknowledge its glory; 
but it is like looking on a beautiful corse from whence the 
life is gone. Earth smiles, Heaven smiles, just as hereto- 
fore; but the smile resembles that on a face once loved, 
which meets us vacantly, the heart beneath it shining out 
no longer. We do not weep; perhaps we scarcely suffer: 
we are quite calm, gentle, patient; all goes on with us as 
before ; we walk through the beaten path of our daily ex^ 


THE OGILVIES. 


369 


istence, but the light is gone from the world ; the present 
seems inane and dim; and oh! merciful God, we have no 
future and no past! Not here! but we know we have 
hereafter. And then we see infolding us an arm of com- 
fort and strength, and hear the voice — “ I AM !” 

Can I suffice for heaven and not for earth ? 

So Philip felt when he sat alone in the twilight on the 
cliff hallowed by tradition as “ Shakspeare’s.” The hour 
was so late that all sea-side idlers had long departed, and 
the place seemed as lonely and dreary as in the olden time 
of Shakspeare, Lear, and poesy. The sea sang hollowly far 
below ; and when the last sunset tinge had faded behind 
the Downs, they assumed a robe of mist, spectral and mys- 
terious. Gradually it folded itself round the cliff, complete- 
ly hiding the sea beneath, so that the melancholy voice 
arose from waters that were heard, not seen. 

Driven by that irresistible impulse which seizes most 
men on such a spot of danger — so much so that the ancients 
believed a tempting demon stood on the brink of each abyss 
— Philip crept to the utmost verge of the cliff. Unwitting- 
ly, and fitfully, there danced through his brain the poet’s 
tale which had made the spot renowned — he thought of 
blind Gloster, hunted by fate into that last plunge which 
would determine all. He pictured what the old man’s feel- 
ings might have been — what must be the thoughts of any 
man sick of life — looking curiously, desiringly, into the aw- 
ful mystery beyond — so near, that one simple movement 
would make it a reality. 

Suddenly he remembered how in that man he had pict- 
ured himself. 

* The conviction — horrible, yet full of a daring pride, a de- 
licious alluring awe — burst upon him, that he held his soul, 
as it were, by a thread ; that he was master of his own des- 
tiny : one step, and he might pass from the world’s tortures 
to — where ? 

“ My life is in my hand,” he muttered in the words of 
one sorely tried of old — “ My life is in my hand , yet I do 
not forget thy law!” 


370 


THE OGILVIES. 


Shuddering, he drew back from the abyss in horror. But 
he felt that to his latest day that minute’s sensation would 
teach him compassion for suicides. And while he shrank 
fearfully from the crime only thought of in possibility, the 
revulsion softened him from dull dreariness into a sorrow 
that, but for his strong manhood, would have melted in 
tears. He was glad — thankful for any sense — even the 
sense of suffering. He looked up at the stars, which were 
beginning to shine through the gloomy night, and prayed 
Heaven to keep him free from sin, that he might endure 
with a patient heart through life unto its ending. 

Then he went homeward, greatly composed. He sought 
to feel as though he belonged to the world. Passing 
through the town, he tried to look around him, and feel an 
interest in the various talking and laughing groups, the 
street music, the cheerful shops; but it was vain. He 
seemed as different from the rest of mankind as the gloomy 
cliffs from the gay-lighted street which they overhung. 

When he reached the inn, he learned there was a gentle- 
man awaiting him. Entering, he saw — Paul Lynedon ! 

Had the visitant been a ghost from the dead, a demon 
returned to the upper world, he could not have raised more 
fearful passions in Philip Wychnor’s breast. Anguish, ter- 
ror, even a thrill of fierce hatred overwhelmed him. He 
sprang toward Lynedon, scarcely conscious of what he did, 
and then sank into a chair, speechless. 

“ I have startled you, I see. I ought to apologize,” said 
Lynedon, gently and courteously, though somewhat annoy- 
ed at this rather strange reception. But Paul was a man 
who would have shown dignified civility to his executioner 
on the scaffold. 

Philip Wychnor answered him not a word. 

“ Perhaps this visit is ill timed — an intrusion. But, in 
excuse, I need only mention your friends and mine — the 
Ogilvies.” 

Philip started up in an agony. “Sir — Mr. Lynedon — 
tell me what you have to say without mentioning names. 
I have been terribly tried and I pretend not to superhuman 


THE OGILYIES. 


371 


strength. I wish to leave England, forget all friends, break 
all ties, for a season. Why must I be tortured any more ?” 

Lynedon opened his eyes with extreme but still most 
polite astonishment. 

“Pardon me, and forget all I have been weak enough to 
say,” Philip continued, trying to calm himself with remem 
bering to whom he spoke. “ I shall forget it myself soon. 
Will you sit?” 

He pointed to a chair, but remained standing himself, 
leaning against the wall. 

“This is a strange welcome from an acquaintance — I 
would fain have said a friend; but I pass it by, Mr.Wych- 
nor, both for your own sake and hers whose messenger I 
am.” And he presented Mrs. Ogilvie’s letter. 

Under all circumstances, Paul Lynedon had the gentle- 
ness of a true gentleman. He saw at once that something 
was terribly wrong with the young man. He pitied him. 
Conquering at once his natural curiosity and the vague 
jealousy which was dawning in him, he w T alked to the open 
window and contemplated the stars, so that, of whatever 
news he had been the unlucky bearer, his companion might 
learn them unobserved. But he expected not to hear the 
cry — almost like a woman’s agony — which broke from 
Philip Wychnor. It brought him at once to the young 
man’s side. 

“ What is the matter ? Can I — ” 

. Philip caught his arm wildly. “ You know — tell me the 
truth, on your soul — you know what this letter contains?” 

“ On my soul, I do not !” 

“ What ! not that she is ill — dying ?” 

“ Dying !” cried Lynedon, vehemently, his thoughts re- 
curring to the only woman who ever occupied them now. 
But he recollected himself at once: “No, you mistake; it 
is only Miss Ogilvie who is ill.” 

Philip looked in his face with an eager, half-incredulous 
Btare. Only f* You say so calmly! You come here 
when — ” 

Paul began to guess dimly at the truth — at least some 


372 


THE OGILVIES. 


part of it. He answered kindly, “ I regret Miss Ogilvie’s 
illness much ; she is a gentle creature, and I am happy to 
call her my friend, hut — ” 

The careless tone struck Philip with conviction at once : 
“ I see it all now — all ! Oh, what have I done ? May God 
forgive me !” 

He laid his head on the table, and burst into a passion 
of tears. 

Paul was touched. Once upon a time he might have 
mocked at such weakness ; but now his own heart taught 
him differently. He said, with kindness and delicacy, “You 
and I, and all her friends, must rejoice that the crisis is past: 
I heard so to-day from Summerwood. She will recover, 
please God !” 

There was no answer, and Lynedon thought the best 
thing he could do was to walk to the window again. He 
remained there until he felt a hand on his. It was Philip 
Wychnor’s. His face was as white as death, but it wore a 
calmness almost like joy. 

“You will pardon all this, Lynedon ?” 

“ My dear fellow” — and Paul returned the cordial grasp 
— “ don’t speak of it. I’m sure I am very sorry — that is, 
glad — but, being quite in the dark, and having a great re- 
spect for both parties, might I — ” 

“Do not ask me any thing — do not think any thing. One 
day you may know all.” 

“ Well, as you like : all I know now is, that Mrs. Ogilvie 
wished to see you ; that I sought you by her desire.” 

“ God bless you, and her !” cried Philip. 

The blood rushed to Lynedon’s brow. He felt like a 
demon in the presence of a saint. 

“You will be kind and leave me now,” pursued Philip. 
“I feel towards you deeply, thankfully. We shall meet 
again as sincere friends ?” 

“ I hope so,” said Paul, warmly. 

Wychnor followed him to the door. As they said adieu, 
he looked repentantly, almost affectionately, into the face 
which had once seemed to him like that of a haunting fiend. 


THE OGILVIES. 


373 


“Forgive me once more. You know not what I have 
endured. May you never know the like! May you he 
happy — very happy ! You deserve it — I am sure.” 

Lynedon sprang from the door : the blessing knelled on 
his ear like a judgment-doom ! He fled from its sound, 
but its echo followed him ; he dulled it with wine, but it 
rose up again. At last he clutched it as one clutches in 
despair some ever-pursuing horror. He said to himself, 
that not for earth, heaven, or hell would he give up Kath- 
arine Ogilvie ! 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

Thou hast named a name 
Which to my conscience gives such secret pangs. 

— Yea, there is nothing that I would not do 
In reparation of the wrong I’ve done him. 

Joanna Baillie. 

Remorse, if proud and gloomy — 

It is a poison-tree, that, pierced to the utmost, 

Weeps only tears of poison. — C oleridge. 

Mrs. Breynton was sitting in her breakfast-room — or 
rather moving restlessly about, impatient of her solitude — 
when she heard the tidings of Eleanor’s danger. The shock 
fell upon her with overwhelming suddenness. Eleanor’s 
absence had revealed how the gentle girl had twined her- 
self round this aged heart, bringing to it life, and youth, 
and warmth unknown before. The first few days of her 
loneliness Mrs. Breynton had chafed and fumed. Nay, but 
for her pride, she would have summoned Eleanor back. As 
it was, she had time to discover how strong was this sec- 
ond affection — almost rivaling the one pre-eminent feeling, 
her love for her nephew. She now began to desire more 
anxiously than ever the working out of her long-projected 
scheme, which, in making Eleanor Philip’s wife, should bind 
both attachments in one. 

And then came the letter of Katharine Ogilvie, with ti- 
dings which threatened ruin alike to her worldly schemes, 


374 


THE OGILVIES. 


her planning ambition, her long-suppressed affections, which 
in old age had risen up so strong. Mrs. Breynton was be- 
wildered — grief, fear, remorse wrung her heart by turns. 
Again and again she read the letter: it seemed to grow 
more and more confused. She was conscious of but one 
impulse — that she must that instant go to Summerwood. 

She summoned the waiting-woman who had grown old 
in her service, and bade her prepare for the sudden journey. 
When Davis broke out in loud remonstrances, she was si- 
lenced by a look — not commanding, as of old, but piteous- 
ly weak and imploring. 

“ Do not hinder me, good Davis. She will die before I 
reach her. My dear Eleanor ! — poor Isabel’s child ! May 
God forgive me if I did her wrong !” Davis, though scarce- 
ly understanding her broken words, grew terrified at the 
change which had come over the dean’s widow. 

“Let me go too, dear mistress,” sobbed the faithful creat- 
ure. “ Let me go, that I may be with you in your trouble, 
and see poor dear Miss Eleanor once more.” 

Mrs. Breynton passively assented; and the two aged 
women, mistress and maid, traveled all night, scarcely ex- 
changing a word until they reached Summerwood. 

Katharine met Mrs. Breynton at the door. She had oft- 
en heard Hugh jestingly describe the stately, stern-featured, 
black-robed widow of the dean ; but she saw only a bent, 
haggard woman, who, clinging to her servant’s arm, seemed 
to tremble with apprehension ere she crossed the threshold. 
Katharine stepped forward quickly. 

“ Will you lean on me, Mrs. Breynton ? Iam Katharine 
Ogilvie.” 

Mrs. Breynton seized her arm. “Is she — ” And the 
eager eyes alone continued the mute question. 

“ She lives still. She may live.” 

“Thank God!” Never, during her lifetime, had Mrs. 
Breynton breathed so deep, so solemn a thanksgiving. She 
staggered to a seat ; and for the first time for many years 
the old servant saw her mistress weep. 

It was some hours before Mrs. Breynton was suffered to 


THE OGILVIES. 


375 


enter Eleanor’s chamber. Then Katharine led her in for 
a few moments only, to look on the sick girl as she slept. 

The crisis had passed, and Eleanor lay calm, though 
scarcely breathing. In her pale, wasted face, round which 
the close cap was tied, there was a likeness to one which 
Mrs. Breynton had last seen when she stood beside the 
orphan daughter, to take a farewell look of the dead. The 
resemblance struck her now with a vain repentance. She 
fell at the foot of the bed. 

“ Isabel — Isabel Morton !” she cried, “ your life was dark- 
ened by me and mine. Heaven forgive us for the wrong, 
which ended not with the mother, but passed on to the 
child! Eleanor! — my sweet, meek Eleanor! live — only 
live — and I will confess all — atone for all !” 

She seemed not to notice the presence of another, but 
Katharine’s ear caught every word. In a few minutes she 
had led Mrs. Breynton from the chamber of the yet sleep- 
ing girl. Then she spoke, in the low, firm tone by which 
Katharine, when she willed, could rule all minds weaker 
than her own : 

“ Mrs. Breynton, I am almost a stranger to you ; but I 
have a right to speak, for Eleanor is my sister, and you 
hold her happiness in your hands. How, or why this is, I 
know not, and seek not to know ; but thus much I have 
learned — that she and your nephew, Philip Wychnor, have 
loved one another for many years, and that you prevented 
their marriage.” 

The shadow of her former freezing dignity came to the 
dean’s widow, but only for a moment. Conscience-stricken, 
she quailed before the clear eyes that seemed to read her 
heart. “ It is all true — all true !” she muttered. 

Katharine went on. “ What I wish to say is this : that 
Philip Wychnor has been deceived in some way — that he 
has cast Eleanor off, believing her faithless — and that his 
unkindness has almost broken her heart. He has gone 
away — abroad, I believe.” 

“ He must not — shall not go,” almost screamed Mrs. 
Breynton : “ it is not too late, even now !” 

26 


376 


THE OGILYIES. 


“ No ; for whoever has stood between them, I will bring 
them together. Take care, Mrs. Breynton ; I am very 
strong — stronger than you. You have been most cruel to 
these two. But, with your will or against it, they shall be 
happy now.” 

And Katharine stood before the cowering, remorseful 
woman like an avenging angel. She met with no opposi- 
tion — not even when she spoke of Philip Wychnor’s com- 
ing, which she daily expected. Mrs. Breynton knew the 
time was near when she must confess. Her shame was 
heavy upon her, but her suffering outweighed it all. She 
entreated to see Eleanor alone, but this w T as forbidden. 
Katharine seemed to govern the whole household, including 
the frightened Hugh, who had come hastily to Summer- 
wood, and lamented by turns the illness of his sister, and 
the loss of a whole fortnight’s grouse-shooting. 

In a few days Eleanor became convalescent. At fength 
Katharine led Mrs. Breynton to the sick-chamber. She 
only staid to see Eleanor stretch out her arms with a faint 
cry of joy, while the aged woman sank on her knees beside 
her ; then she closed the door and went away. 

It was almost an hour before she was summoned to her 
sister’s room. Eleanor lay, pale indeed, but with such glad- 
ness in her eyes, such a spiritual light suffusing her whole 
face, that Katharine marveled at her beauty. Mrs. Breyn- 
ton sat beside her, looking very humble ; but her hand was 
fast clasped in Eleanor’s, and from time to time the girl 
turned upon her a look full of pity, forgiveness, and cheer. 

Katharine advanced. “ You need not speak, dearest ; I 
see your face. All is peace and hope with you now !” Her 
voice failed a little, and one tear dimmed her eyes. 

“ It will be, soon — soon, please God.” 

“ Will you tell me, Eleanor — ” 

“ Ay, tell her,” said Mrs. Breynton. “ It is but just.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! there is nothing to tell,” and the wan 
fingers closed tighter over Mrs. Breynton’s. “ Katharine, 
I think you have guessed all — that we have loved one an- 
other for many, many years. I have only a few words 


THE OGILVIES. 


377 


more to say. Come closer, dear, for I am very tired and 
weak.” 

Katharine bent over her. Eleanor went on quicker, 
though speaking very faintly : 

“ Philip was mistaken. He heard a rumor concerning 
something that happened years ago, about one who liked 
Jne once, or at least imagined he did so. Thus far the tale 
was true. He wushed to marry me. But it was in vain ; 
I never loved any one save Philip. Katharine, I must see 
Philip, to tell him so. If I die, the knowledge will comfort 
him, and give him peace. If I live — ” 

“You will live — you must live, my darling!” sobbed 
Mrs. Breynton. 

“ Yes, dear friend, I may live, please God ! to be your 
child still,” was the gentle answer. “ But, Katharine, bring 
Philip to me ! He loves me ; he did love me through all, 
and I have no pride in my heart — only love. Let him come, 
that I may take away his sorrow.” 

“Be content, Eleanor, we will send,” said Katharine, 
soothingly ; “ nay, to tell the truth, he is already sent for 
by my own desire. He will come soon.” 

“Ah! that makes me happy — so happy! Thank you, 
dear, kind sister,” faintly answered the sick girl, closing her 
eyes. A moment after, she said, dreamily, “Whom did you 
send ? W T as it Hugh ?” 

“No, a friend of his, and yours too.” Katharine hesi- 
tated. “ In truth, it was Mr. Lynedon.” 

Eleanor started up wildly. “ Oh no, you could not, you 
did not send Mr. Lynedon ! My Philip, my poor Philip ! it 
will drive him mad ! And I am not there to tell him the 
truth — that I did not listen, not one moment ; that no pow- 
er on earth should ever have made me Paul Lynedon’s 
wife.” 

“ Paul Lynedon’s wife !” Even Eleanor’s face was not 
more death -like than Katharine’s when she echoed the 
words. “ Eleanor, answer me : was it Paul Lynedon who 
asked you to marry him ?” 

“ Yes — yes. I never told any one — not even Philip : I 


THE OGILVIES. 


378 

would not now, but I am so weak, and my heart is break- 
ing. Katharine, think for me ; write to Philip — tell him 
you know I never cared for Mr. Lynedon. You do know, 
for it all passed at that fatal visit to Summerwood.” 

“ That was the time, then !” said Katharine; and the 
words came hissingly through her closed lips. “ I am glad 
you told me this ; it comes not too late. It will save you 
— perhaps not you alone. Rest, sister, rest ! I will do all 
you wish.” 

She unclasped the arm which had folded round her in 
frantic energy, and laid Eleanor down, exhausted and weep- 
ing. Then she glided from the chamber. In the apart- 
ment beyond, Mrs. Pennythorne sat alone ; from the open 
dining-room door came the voices of Sir Robert and Hugh. 
She could gain no solitude within the house, so fled wildly 
from it. 

Out into the dreary, moonless autumn night, the dark- 
ness and the rain, Katharine passed. She walked rapidly, 
the bleak wind lifting her hair, and piercing to her unshel- 
tered bosom. At the end of the avenue, where Lynedon 
had that morning lately come bounding to her side, she 
stopped. 

“ He told me a lie — a lie !” she cried. “ He deceived me 
— even in those old days: he has deceived me now. He is 
false — all false ! And I have wrecked my peace on earth 
— almost my hope of heaven — for love of him ! 

“ Paul ! Paul Lynedon ! you love me now — I know it ! 
Heart and soul, you are mine ! But it had been better for 
you to have torn out that false tongue of yours before it 
uttered that lie, the last lie of all— before you told me you 
had never wished to marry Eleanor Ogilvie.” 

Ere long her stormy anger passed into weeping. “I 
wished to die !” she moaned, “ for then I should escape sin, 
and suffer no more sorrow. I would have died calmly, be- 
lieving in him still, though how dearly I loved him I dared 
not let him know. Never — never! I would never have 
let him know. Wretched we might have been, but we 
would never have been wicked. I would still have honor- 


THE OGILVIES. 


379 


ed him — trusted him — believed him noble and true. But 
he is false — all false — false to the heart’s core. He always 
was so. And I loved him — I love him. Oh miserable 
me !” 

A little longer this w^ail of a wrecked heart was wasted 
on the silent night, and then Katharine saw lights moving 
in the house. She returned hastily thither, lest her absence 
should have caused surprise. Crossing the hall, she met 
Sir Robert and Hugh. 

“Really, Katharine, these late rambles in the grounds 
are very injurious to health. And you have no bonnet! 
My dear Hugh, you should take better care of your wife,” 
observed the baronet, as he ascended the stairs. 

“Take care of Katharine ! Nay, I can’t do that. She’s 
a young lilly that will neither be led nor driven. I have 
found that out at last,” said Hugh, carelessly. 

Katharine was passing him by, but at his words she turn- 
ed and looked him in the face. Her whole bearing express- 
ed the most intense and withering scorn. A strange com 
trast was there between the husband and wife ; he, grown 
awkward and heavy, and becoming each day coarser in per- 
son as in mind — she, with her ardent soul flashing in her 
eyes and dilating her stature, while her slender, beautiful 
form, gradually wasting away, made her seem hardly like 
a creature of this world. 

“ What was that you said ?” 

“ Oh, nothing — nothing !” And Hugh shrank away, 
cowed, before her fixed gaze. “ Don’t be vexed, Katha- 
rine ; I only meant that you were not quite as you used to 
be ; but I suppose all girls change when they marry.” 

“ Those were not your words. Speak the truth.” 

“ What’s the use, if you know it already ?” said Hugh, 
sulkily. “ But don’t keep me here, pray ; I’m going out.” 

She stood in his path still. 

“ Stay, Hugh ; you said I would neither be led nor driven, 
and you are right ; I will not.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t want to try. Many a husband might 
complain of the little attention you pay, but I always take 


380 


THE OGILVIES. 


it quietly. Still, what with your visiting, and your literary 
parties, and your fine gentlemen friends — ” 

“ Hugh, take care !” Katharine broke in, wildly. “ Do 
not try me too much. Speak kindly to me — let me do as 
I will ; it can not be for long — not long.” 

“ Eh ! what ?” and, struck by her tone, he came nearer, 
and gazed in her excited countenance with some show of 
interest. “ Poor little Katharine ! you don’t look well — 
you hardly seem to know what you’re saying. This anxi- 
ety about Kelly has been too much for you. There, be qui- 
et !” His words were not without affection, though it was 
expressed in his own careless fashion. He stooped down 
and patted his wife’s head tenderly. 

The tone and action smote Katharine’s heart with a re- 
morseful memory of olden days — when she had known no 
stronger love than that won by the unfailing devotion of 
Cousin Hugh. The thought drew her nearer to her hus- 
band. 

“Forgive me, Hugh. I might have made you happier, 
perhaps. We were not suited for one another. We should 
not have married.” 

“ Do you think so ? Well, well, it is too late now. We 
must make the best of one another,” said Hugh, in a tone 
half angry, half sorrowful, as he turned away. 

Katharine caught his hand. “Oh, Hugh — good, kind 
cousin Hugh ! why did you not let me call you by that 
name all your life through ? I could have loved you then.” 

“And you don’t now? You have said so once or twice 
before. Well, I can’t help that; I must learn not to mind 
it.” And he sighed heavily. 

Again the wife felt a repentant pang. “ Husband, have 
pity ; my heart is breaking ! Every day we seem to live 
only to make each other miserable.” 

“ Luckily, we shall get rid of one another soon — for a 
time, at least. Now Eleanor is better, I don’t see why I 
should not go back to the grouse-shooting. I’ll start to- 
morrow.” 

Moved by an unaccountable impulse, which she afterward 


THE OGILYIES. 


381 


remembered with comfort, Katharine asked — nay, implored 
him to stay at Summerwood ; but he refused somewhat 
angrily. 

“ I never want you to give up your pleasures, Katharine, 
and I do not see why you should interfere with mine. We 
don’t care for one another — don’t let us pretend that we 
do. Let us each go our own way.” 

“ Be it so,” answered the wife, solemnly. It seemed as 
if the last links of affection and duty were then torn from 
her, and she were cast helplessly upon the wide world of 
desolation, misery, or sin. 

She began to ascend the stairs, and Hugh went to the 
hall door, seeking for his hat and whip. Then he turned 
round and hesitated. 

“ You’re not gone, Katharine, are you ?” 

“No, I am here.” 

“ Because we may as well say good-by now, for I sha’n’t 
be home until midnight, and I shall start at daylight to- 
morrow. So give me your hand, Katharine. Forgive and 
forget. Perhaps we shall get on better together when I 
come back again. We’ll part friends now, at all events.” 

She went up to him, and, for the first time in her life, 
kissed him of her own accord. In times to come, the re- 
membered action proved a balm for many a conscience- 
sting. 

Then — they parted. 


382 


THE OG1LVIES. 


CHAPTER L. 

My breast is pressed to thine, Alice, 

My arm is round thee twined ; 

Thy breath dwells on my lips, Alice, 

Like clover-scented wind. 

Love glistens in thy sunny ee, 

And blushes on thy brow, 

Earth’s heaven is here to thee and me, 

For we are happy now. 

My hand is on thy heart, Alice, 

Sae place thy hand in mine ; 

Now welcome weal or woe, Alice, 

Our love we canna tine. 

Ae kiss ! let others gather gowd 
Frae ilka land or sea ; 

My treasure is the richest yet, 

For, Alice, I hae thee ! — Robert Nicol. 

In a few days Eleanor began to feel the delicious dreamy 
calm of waking from sickness to convalescence — from an- 
guish to hope. Though still Philip came not, she felt sure 
that he would come, speeded by the love which she doubt- 
ed not lay deep in his heart still. If ever there was a liv- 
ing embodiment of faith — woman’s faith — it was Eleanor 
Ogilvie. She had been all her life full of trust in every 
human creature. It is the wavering, the doubtful, who 
dream of change ; it is the inconstant only who dread in- 
constancy. 

She lay for hours together on her couch beside the draw- 
ing-room window, with her meek hands folded, and her 
eyes, now calm as of old, though a little more thoughtful, 
watching the little clouds floating over the sky. Then, 
with the almost child-like interest that very trifles give to 
one who is recovering from severe illness, she would look 
at the many gifts of flowers or fruit which she was daily 
receiving, every one of which showed how dearly Eleanor 
was loved. She seemed to have passed out of that terrible 


THE OGILVIES. 


383 


darkness into a world that was full of love. In this deep 
peace she rested as a child lies dreaming in the sunshine — 
not pondering whence it came, or how long it would last, 
simply rejoicing in it. She, opening her full heart to all, 
felt love continually around her — God’s love and man’s; 
she rejoiced therein, and her every thought was a mute 
thanksgiving. Blessed, thrice blessed are they whose souls 
thus turn heavenward, not in sorrow alone, but also in glad- 
ness. And surely the sacrifice of a happy spirit must be 
acceptable unto Him, who only suffers us to walk in sack- 
cloth and ashes for a time, that, so chastened, He may lift 
us to His presence with exceeding joy. 

It was the still hush of an autumn afternoon when Philip 
reached Summerwood. He came into Eleanor’s presence 
alone. She had fallen asleep : there was a quiet smile play- 
ing round her lips, as though she were dreaming happily. 
It was so indeed, for the dream had borne her to the pleas- 
ant palace garden. She sat underneath the old cherry-tree, 
listening to the rustling of its leaves and scented blossoms. 
She heard Philip’s voice; she felt the clasp of Philip’s hand; 
and then — oh blessed waking ! — she found the dream was 
true ! He knelt beside her couch, gazing upon her, almost 
weeping over her. 

“ Philip — my Philip — you are come ; I knew you would 
come at last !” 

Again, as on the night of their parting, she extended her 
loving arms. He did not dash them from him now — he 
clasped them wildly round his neck, though he could not 
speak one word. The next moment she was nestling in his 
breast. 

It was a long time before either broke that blessed si- 
lence. At last Eleanor looked up in his face and said, 

“You are not angry with me now, Philip? You know 
all?” 

“ I know nothing but that I am here, beside you, holding 
you fast — fast ! Oh, Eleanor, neither life nor death shall 
take you away from me ! Say that it shall be so — that 
nothing on earth shall ever part us more.” 

R 2 


384 


THE OGILVIES. 


And, softly answering, came to Philip’s ear the words 
which to sorrow are a knell, to love a deep anthem of per- 
petual joy — “ Never more — never more !” 

After a while they began to talk more calmly. “You 
have asked me nothing, Philip,” said Eleanor. “ I feel how 
kind, how tender this is — when you have been so tried ; 
but now I must tell you all.” 

“ Tell me nothing, my dearest, save that you love me.” 

“ You thought I did not love you, Philip?” and her eyes 
were lifted to his — a whole life’s faith expressed in their 
gaze. “ You will not think so any more ?” 

He made no answer — how could he ? Oh blessed ones ! 
thus binding up the hopes of a lifetime in this perfect un- 
ion of 

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love. 

“Now, Philip, you must listen to me for a little — only a 
little. We must not have between us even the shadow of 
a cloud.” And she began her tale slowly and cautiously, 
trying not to mention Mrs. Breynton’s name. 

Philip changed countenance at first. “Then there was 
some truth in the tale ? Why did you not tell me about 
Mr. Lynedon ?” 

She laid her hand upon his : “ Stay one moment before 
you judge me. In those happy days at the palace — for, 
with all our trials, they were happy days — there was in my 
heart no thought of any save one — save him who then ask- 
ed for it — ay, and had it too, almost before he asked.” And 
a conscious. blush and dimpling smile brought back to her 
face its long-vanished playfulness. 

“ Eleanor,” interrupted her lover, fondly, “ you look as 
you did long ago, when we were girl and boy together at 
the palace. You will be my own sunny-faced little Nelly 
again soon.” 

“ Shall I ?” and her low, glad-hearted laugh echoed his 
own. How child-like are happy lovers ! 

“ Besides,” Eleanor went on, gravely, “ I did not speak 
about Paul Lynedon, because I thought it scarcely right. 
All love is sacred; hopeless love most sacred of all. It 


THE OGILYIES. 


385 


seems to me that a woman should not betray, even to him 
who has her whole heart, another who has cast his before 
her in vain. You do not think me wrong ?” 

“No, no; you are good and true, and compassionate to 
all, my dearest.” 

“ Afterward I was most glad to find that Mr. Lynedon 
had lost all painful feelings about me. We met by chance 
at Florence, and again in London, when we talked together 
frankly and cordially, and he asked me always to be his 
friend. This happened on that night at my brother’s — that 
sad night when — ” 

“ How mad, how blind, how wicked was I !” cried Philip. 
Then he told her all, passionately imploring her forgiveness 
for every doubt, and still more for every harsh and unkind 
word. 

But she laid her hand on his lips : “ Nay, you loved — you 
love me ; there is no need of forgiveness between us. 
Therefore,” she added, softly, “in our perfect joy, we have 
more need to pardon those who were unkind to us. Philip, 
my own Philip, you will listen to me a little longer ?” 

He sat down by her side, and there, resting her head on 
his shoulder, and holding both his hands, as though she 
would not let him go until her influence had subdued any 
wrath he might feel, Eleanor told her betrothed the story 
of his aunt’s wickedness. But she did not call it by that 
harsh name : she spoke with most merciful tenderness of 
the wrong done to both ; and spoke not of it at all until 
she had reminded him of all his childish days, of every old- 
en kindness which could soften his heart toward Mrs. 
Breynton. 

Philip Wychnor was of a gentle spirit, but he was also 
a man. He had become one even since Eleanor had parted 
from him. The hard struggle with the world had made 
every passion in his nature ten times stronger. He was 
stung to the quick by the discovery alike of the personal 
wrong, and the deceit at which his truthful spirit revolted. 
Starting up, he paced the room in vehement anger. 

“And it was for this that I asked you to stay with her, 


388 


THE OGTLVIES. 


ip, your arm is so strong ! Think how we two are entering 
life — a life full of love, hope, and joy — while she — ” 

“Hush ! hush, darling — say no more.” He pressed a kiss 
on her forehead, and was gone from the room. The next 
minute she saw him walking quickly down the lawn. Elea- 
nor could look no more ; she sank down on the pillow, and 
wept tears more holy, more joyful, than even those so late- 
ly shed in reconciled love on Philip’s bosom. 

Her work was done. It was chronicled by no human 
tongue — noted by no human eye. Only when, a few weeks 
after, she sat with Philip and Philip’s aunt, listening to the 
reading of the Holy Book, which sounded holier still in the 
Sabbath silence of the old Cathedral, Eleanor heard the 
words, 

“ Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the 
kingdom of heaven — ” 

With her, the blessedness had begun even on earth. 

Yet a little we would fain linger with these twain on 
that day of happiness and peace ; we would fain see them 
as they talked in the quiet autumn evening, watching the 
sunset. Eleanor still rested on her couch, while Philip sat 
by her side, her fingers wandering in his hair. She count- 
ed, laughingly, one — two — three — white threads among the 
fair silken curls, at which he seemed to murmur greatly, 
seeing he was not thirty yet. But they had no fear of 
growing old now. 

They talked of all which had chanced to Philip during 
these years of varied fortune. He told her of the phases 
through which his mind had passed, of the new life that 
had dawned within him, and of the earnest aim with which 
he now followed an author’s calling. Eleanor saw that to 
him there had come a change — or, rather, less a change than 
a growth. He had risen to the full strength of a man — and 
a man of genius ; he was conscious of it too, and the high 
and noble ambition born of such consciousness was in him 
almost as strong as love itself. His betrothed felt this, but 
the knowledge gave her no pain. Her woman’s heart, to 
which love was all, could at first scarcely comprehend the 


THE OGILYIES. 


389 


mystery ; but ere long it would all grow plain, she knew. 
The most tender and high-hearted woman, on whom falls 
the blessed but trying destiny to be the wife of one en- 
dowed with Heaven’s great gift of genius, must ever feel 
that there are depths in his soul into which she can not 
look — depths which are open only to the eye of God. 
Shame be to her if her mean, jealous love should desire to 
engross all, or, standing between him and the Infinite to 
which he aspires, should wish to darken with one earthly 
shadow the image of the divine ! 

Thus they together held glad yet thoughtful converse, 
as was meet for those who would soon enter on life’s jour- 
ney hand-in-hand. They talked but little of their worldly 
future, since it was all plain before them now, and both had 
far higher thoughts than counting of gold and silver store, 
and planning a luxurious home. Once only Philip called 
her “ his fair heiress, his rich Eleanor,” and asked smilingly 
whether the world would not contemn her for marrying a 
poor author. 

But she only smiled in return. The love between them 
was so perfect that which gave or which received mattered 
not. The act was merely a name. 

Then the twilight grew dimmer, the room darkened, and 
through the window whence they had gazed on the sunset 
they looked up at a sky all thick with stars. The words 
of the betrothed pair became fewer and more solemn, 
though tender still. From the earthly path which they 
would tread together, their thoughts turned to the unseen 
world beyond. Most blessed they, whose love feared no 
parting even there ! 

They spoke — ay, amidst their deep happiness — they 
spoke of this; and then there came upon their lips a few 
beloved names, whose sound had passed from earth to heav- 
en. The mother, could she have bent down from the eter- 
nal home, might have heard that, even amid this blessed- 
ness, her child remembered her ; and the young spirit, so 
early taken, might have rejoiced to know that the thought 
of poor Leigh lingered in his friend’s fond memory still. 


388 


THE OGILVIES. 


ip, your arm is so strong ! Think how we two are entering 
life — a life full of love, hope, and joy — while she — ” 

“Hush ! hush, darling — say no more.” He pressed a kiss 
on her forehead, and was gone from the room. The next 
minute she saw him walking quickly down the lawn. Elea- 
nor could look no more ; she sank down on the pillow, and 
wept tears more holy, more joyful, than even those so late- 
ly shed in reconciled love on Philip’s bosom. 

Her work was done. It was chronicled by no human 
tongue — noted by no human eye. Only when, a few weeks 
after, she sat with Philip and Philip’s aunt, listening to the 
reading of the Holy Book, which sounded holier still in the 
Sabbath silence of the old Cathedral, Eleanor heard the 
words, 

“ Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the 
kingdom of heaven — ” 

With her, the blessedness had begun even on earth. 

Yet a little we would fain linger with these twain on 
that day of happiness and peace ; we would fain see them 
as they talked in the quiet autumn evening, watching the 
sunset. Eleanor still rested on her couch, while Philip sat 
by her side, her fingers wandering in his hair. She count- 
ed, laughingly, one — two — three — white threads among the 
fair silken curls, at which he seemed to murmur greatly, 
seeing he was not thirty yet. But they had no fear of 
growing old now. 

They talked of all which had chanced to Philip during 
these years of varied fortune. He told her of the phases 
through which his mind had passed, of the new life that 
had dawned within him, and of the earnest aim with which 
he now followed an author’s calling. Eleanor saw that to 
him there had come a change — or, rather, less a change than 
a growth. He had risen to the full strength of a man — and 
a man of genius ; he was conscious of it too, and the high 
and noble ambition born of such consciousness was in him 
almost as strong as love itself. His betrothed felt this, but 
the knowledge gave her no pain. Her woman’s heart, to 
which love was all, could at first scarcely comprehend the 


THE OGILVIES. 


389 


mystery ; but ere long it would all grow plain, she knew. 
The most tender and high-hearted woman, on whom falls 
the blessed but trying destiny to be the wife of one en- 
dowed with Heaven’s great gift of genius, must ever feel 
that there are depths in his soul into which she can not 
look — depths which are open only to the eye of God. 
Shame be to her if her mean, jealous love should desire to 
engross all, or, standing between him and the Infinite to 
which he aspires, should wish to darken with one earthly 
shadow the image of the divine ! 

Thus they together held glad yet thoughtful converse, 
as was meet for those who would soon enter on life’s jour- 
ney hand-in-hand. They talked but little of their worldly 
future, since it was all plain before them now, and both had 
far higher thoughts than counting of gold and silver store, 
and planning a luxurious home. Once only Philip called 
her “ his fair heiress, his rich Eleanor,” and asked smilingly 
whether the world would not contemn her for marrying a 
poor author. 

But she only smiled in return. The love between them 
was so perfect that which gave or which received mattered 
not. The act was merely a name. 

Then the twilight grew dimmer, the room darkened, and 
through the window whence they had gazed on the sunset 
they looked up at a sky all thick with stars. The words 
of the betrothed pair became fewer and more solemn, 
though tender still. From the earthly path which they 
would tread together, their thoughts turned to the unseen 
world beyond. Most blessed they, whose love feared no 
parting even there ! 

They spoke — ay, amidst their deep happiness — they 
spoke of this; and then there came upon their lips a few 
beloved names, whose sound had passed from earth to heav- 
en. The mother, could she have bent down from the eter- 
nal home, might have heard that, even amid this blessed- 
ness, her child remembered her ; and the young spirit, so 
early taken, might have rejoiced to know that the thought 
of poor Leigh lingered in his friend’s fond memory still. 


390 


THE OGILVIES. 


Thus, folded closely heart to heart, Philip and Eleanof 
looked up to the starry sky, and thanked Heaven for the 
love that would bless and brighten earth, until it attained 
its full fruition in eternity. 


CHAPTER LI. 

Thus it was always with me when with thee, 

And I forget my purpose and my wrongs 
In looking and in loving. 

To say that thou didst love me ? Curse the air 
That bore the sound to me! 

There is no blasphemy in love, but doubt ; 

No sin, but to deceive. 

Now I forgive thy having loved another, 

And I forgive — but never mind it now ; 

I have forgiven so much, there’s nothing left 
To make more words about. Answer me not ; 

Let me say what I have to say. Then — go ! 

Philip Bailey. 

Paul Lynedon had been whirled through life like a 
stray autumn leaf, the sport of every breeze of impulse or 
circumstance. An instinctive nobleness had kept him free 
from any great sin, and his strong desire for the world’s 
good opinion served frequently to deter him from smaller 
errors. But he never did a thing solely because it was 
right. Interest and inclination were with him motives far 
more powerful than any abstract love of virtue. 

Thus he suffered himself to be drifted idly on by any 
chance current, and had probably, during his whole life, 
known no fixed principle or real emotion until every im- 
pulse of his being concentrated itself in passion for Katha- 
rine Ogilvie. Perhaps the very hopelessness of this love 
made it ten times stronger, for there was still in Lynedon’s 
character that strange contradiction which caused every 
thing to appear more precious in the degree that it seemed 
unattainable. 

Of the end he never thought any more than did Katha- 
rine. He was not an evil-hearted man ; and if he had been 


THE OGILVIES. 


391 


such, this love had so purified his nature, that against her, 
at least, he could not sin. He could only cast his soul be- 
fore her, worshiping, hut not daring by a single glance to 
ask for responsive love. 

Until now ! On that early morning, when he walked by 
her side along the avenue at Summerwood, Paul Lynedon 
had been startled by the few words which the strong pent- 
up tide of emotion had forced from Katharine’s lips. Could 
it be that the girlish admiration over which he had once 
smiled complacently — though he now clung to its memory 
with an intense and lingering fondness — could it he that 
this was indeed the dawn of a far deeper feeling ? Had 
she then loved — and, oh blissful thought, that made his 
heart leap with desperate joy ! did she now love him ? 

Paul saw Katharine no more that day, hut there reached 
him the letter to Philip Wychnor, accompanied by a single 
word, “ Remember !” He flew on his mission with speed. 
That mission fulfilled, he longed for its reward — a look, a 
word, a smile ; and though without any settled purpose 
save the impulse which drew him continually to her side, 
Paul Lynedon found himself on the road to Summerwood. 

There was only one whose feet had outstripped even his 
own — Philip Wychnor. But the bright sunbeam of holy 
love traveled faster than the mad whirlwind of passion. 

Lynedon came when night was closing in. He had dash- 
ed his horse along through the still evening air ; he had 
left behind him, without one glance, the gorgeous sunset 
on which the happy plighted lovers had gazed so lingering- 
ly. But Paul saw nothing in earth or heaven save the 
shadowy image that flitted before him, beckoning him on 
with the likeness of Katharine’s eyes and Katharine’s smile. 
Not as these usually met him, freezing him with cold haugh- 
tiness, or torturing him with wayward anger, but softened, 
tearful, and tremulous with love. The strong fantasy al- 
most overwhelmed him. 

He stood within the hall at Summerwood. It was the 
same spot — the dim old hall, half illumined by the lamp. 
Beneath this flickering light he had once gazed down upon 
26 


392 


THE OGILVIES. 


the girlish face, whose sorrowful sweetness won from him 
that parting kiss. It was nothing to him then, but keenly, 
maddeningly he remembered it now. 

“ Sir Robert,” the servant said, “ was engaged with par- 
liamentary business in the drawing-room; Miss Ogilvie 
was in the drawing-room, but she saw no visitors as yet ; 
and Mrs. Ogilvie — ” 

“ Ask if Mrs. Ogilvie will see me for a few moments ; and 
meanwhile I will go in here.” 

He laid his hand — half by chance, half through a way- 
ward impulse that sprang from these thronging memories 
of the past — on the door of the room where Sir James had 
died. 

There, in the same arm-chair where Paul had found her 
of old, sat Katharine ; but her attitude was not as then — 
that of gentle, musing grief — it expressed the utter aban- 
donment of despair. She leaned over the arm of the chair, 
her head bowed, and her clasped hands stretched out rigid- 
ly. So deep was the trance that she heard not Paul Lyne- 
don’s step until he stood beside her. 

“ Katharine !” 

“ Mr. Lynedon ! you dare to — ” She sprang up and con- 
fronted him with her gleaming eyes. But the flash passed 
in a moment. “ Pardon me, but I think you forget your- 
self and the cold, severe tone fell upon his vehemence 
like ice upon fire : “ our friendship, or rather our acquaint- 
ance, scarcely warrants this intrusion.” 

“Acquaintance, Mrs. Ogilvie ! You talk of acquaintance, 
when — ” But again, for the hundredth time, her look froze 
him into stone. He stopped, hesitated, and was silent. 

“This is a late visit. To what may I attribute the 
pleasure ?” 

For a moment Paul drew himself up with his old haugh- 
tiness. “ If I intrude, perhaps I — ” But he could not go 
on thus, for he was in her presence — he felt the spell that 
lay in every movement of her hand, every rustle of her gar- 
ments. All his love rushed back upon him like a flood. 
“ What — what have I done to offend you ?” he cried. 


THE OGILVIES. 


393 


“Have I not been journeying day and night to fulfill your 
command ? I had not thought our meeting would be thus. 
If I have done wrong, tell me — and then, then — in mercy 
forgive me.” 

“For this long and somewhat unwarrantable speech, cer- 
tainly !” answered Katharine. “ I am not aware of aught 
else of your doing which is to me of sufficient importance 
even to need forgiveness. And now allow me to thank you 
for your kind offices in this matter, and to hope that you 
also will grant me pardon for having so far encroached on 
your courtesy.” 

“ Courtesy! you call it courtesy! Well, let it be so ; you 
will never, never know !” said Lynedon, hoarsely. He sank 
on a chair at a little distance, and bent his face from her 
sight. 

Katharine looked upon him — this careless, proud man — 
as he crouched and trembled before her. “ I have triumph- 
ed — I triumph now !” she said in her heart ; and its throbs 
of glad vengeance rose higher and higher, until they sank, 
stilled by the stronger power of love. But she dreaded 
the calm and the silence more than the storm. 

“Mr. Lynedon,” she said, speaking less coldly, but broken- 
ly and hurriedly, “ I will not detain you here ; I am not 
well ; I have suffered so much.” 

“You are ill? you suffer?” and he sprang to her side. 
She moved away from him ; not pointedly, but firmly. 

“ It is nothing ; merely caused by anxiety on my sister’s 
account. You do not ask about her.” 

“ Pardon me ; I think of nothing except — except — ” 

“ She is recovering,” interrupted Mrs. Ogilvie, turning 
away from his gaze of wild fondness; “and lest there 
should seem any thing strange in this mission which you 
have kindly accomplished, I think it due both to Eleanor 
and myself that I should acquaint you with its reason. It 
may give you surprise, perhaps unwelcome surprise” — and 
the tone grew cold and scornful once more — “ to learn that 
Mr.Wychnor and my sister have been affianced lovers for 
years.” 


394 


THE OGILYIES. 


“ Indeed ! I half thought — that is, I guessed. Of course 
I am most delighted,” was Lynedon’s somewhat confused 
answer. 

Katharine’s piercing eyes were upon him. “You need 
not use idle compliments ; you need not let your tongue 
belie you again,” she said, vainly striving against the storm 
of anger that was once more brooding. “ It shows small 
respect for Eleanor when her sometime lover condescends 
to a needless falsehood in order to conceal his love.” 

Lynedon staggered, as though every word uttered by 
that low, clear voice had been an arrow in his breast. 
“ Love ! you think, then, that I loved Eleanor Ogilvie. 
Listen — ” 

“Nay, it requires no excuse.” 

“ And I give none ; but I speak to you — you, Katharine. 
If you could slay me with that look, I would, I will call you 
so. Listen, Katharine — still Katharine ! I came here, 
first, a mere dreamer, with the years of a man and the folly 
of a boy : your cousin’s sweetness pleased me ; her indiffer- 
ence spurred me on to an idle fancy. Men have many such 
which they call love, as I did, until the true love comes ! I 
know now, to my misery — to my despair — I know what it 
is to love /” 

He paused a moment. Katharine’s eyes turned fearfully 
to the closed door, as though in flight alone would she save 
herself from the gathering doom. But her strength failed ; 
she sank helplessly on the chair. 

Lynedon stood over her, his impetuous words pouring on 
her ear like a torrent which she could neither resist nor 
control. 

“You must, you shall hear me yet. I tell you that I 
know now what love is. Love ! love ! the word rings ever 
in my brain, my senses, my soul! Who taught it me? 
When I had passed my youth — when my heart had grown 
cold with its dull pulses of five-and-thirty years — who was 
it that put life therein — fearful, torturing, and yet most 
glorious life? If heaven and hell stood between us, I must 
cry out, as I do now, Take this life which you brought ; it 


THE OGILVIES. 


395 


is yours, all yours, for I love you — I love you, Katharine 
Ogilvie !” 

He sank at her feet, and kissed passionately, not her 
hands, though they lay passive and cold on her knee, but 
her very dress. The impetuous speech once ended, he 
dared not even lift his eyes ; he trembled lest her first word 
should crush him in the dust. But that word did not come; 
she neither moved nor spoke. 

“ Katharine,” he went on — and his tone sank from vehe- 
mence to the deepest murmur of tenderness — “ Katharine, 
forgive me. I am so wretched ; I have no hope in heaven 
or earth but you. Think what a fearful thing it is for me 
to love you thus — you who — But I dare not speak of 
that. Nay, you need not draw your hand away ; I shall 
not take it. I ask nothing, hope for nothing ; only do not 
spurn me — do not drive me from you !” 

She moved, and looked down upon him for an instant, 
but in her eyes there was less of love than of terror. He 
met them still, and drew from them courage. 

“I say not, Love me as I love. You do not — you can 
not. Only be merciful and gentle to me, for the sake of 
those old times. Have you forgotten them, Katharine ? 
how here, in this very room, in this very chair, you sat, and 
I comforted you? You were scarcely more than a child, 
though you were dear to me even then — why, I knew not. 
Katharine ! my Katharine ! do you remember ?” 

“ Remember ?” She started up, silent and trembling no 
more. “Yes, I do remember; and, now that the time has 
come, you shall know all. Listen, Paul !” 

“You call me Paul ! Oh, kindest and dearest, you call 
me Paul !” murmured Lynedon. 

“ Again, Paul! though after this night the name shall 
never pass my lips. You speak truly: I was a child — a 
happy child — until you came. You came, with your win- 
ning words, your subduing tenderness ; you made me be- 
lieve it all — me, a simple girl, gifted, to my misery, with a 
woman’s heart ! See, I speak without a blush or a sigh — • 
these are past now. Paul Lynedon, I loved you then — I 


396 


THE OGILVIES. 


have loved you all my life through — I love you now, dearly, 
dearly ! But I tell you this for the first time and the last, 
for you shall never look on my face more.” 

“ Katharine, have mercy !” 

“You had none ! Oh, why did you deceive me? Why 
did your lips speak falsely — ay, more than speak?” And 
Katharine shuddered. “ Why did your hand write what 
your heart felt not ? And I, who loved, who trusted you 
so, until I heard — But I can not think of it now — it drove 
me mad ! Now, when we might have been so happy, it is 
too late ! too late !” 

Her voice sank into a low, broken weeping. There was 
a silence — a terrible silence — and then Katharine felt her 
hand drawn in his. She snatched it away with a cry. 

“Ah ! you can not — you dare not take my hand ! See ! 
see !” She pointed to the golden symbol it bore — the wed 
ding-ring ! 

Lynedon sprang madly to his feet. “ Katharine, there is 
no pity in heaven or earth for us — I say us, because you 
love me. I know it now ; I see it in your anger as in your 
tears — those blessed tears ! Oh, Katharine, I can not weep, 
but I could pour out my heart’s blood for you !” 

Again he paused, and then went on speaking in a low, 
rapid whisper. “ Tell me — for I know nothing — nothing, 
except that I am almost mad ! — tell me what we must do. 
Shall I end all this ? Katharine, my lost Katharine ! shall 
I die?” 

“ No, no, no !” And she unconsciously seized his hands. 
“ Hush ! be calm ; let me think a moment.” 

She began to talk soothingly, leaning over him the while, 
and trying to speak in quiet and gentle tones. 

Then Paul Lynedon forgot all — honor, duty, even love; 
for the love that would destroy is unworthy of the name. 

“ Dearest,” he murmured, “ the world shuts us out, or will 
do soon. It may be that Heaven is more merciful than 
man. Let us try ! Let us go far away together — to some 
land beyond the seas — to some happier Eden where our 
love is no longer sin !” 


THE OGILVIES. 


397 


Katharine looked at him for an instant with a frenzied, 
incredulous gaze. Then she unclasped his hand, which had 
once more taken hers, flung it from her, and sprang upright. 

“ Paul Lynedon, I know you now ! You have darkened 
my peace — you have poisoned my youth — you have made 
me a scorn, a loathing to myself; but you shall not slay 
my soul. Go — go from my sight forever !” 

He flung himself on the ground, kissing her dress, her 
feet, but there was no relenting. She stood, with lifted 
hand, pointing to the door — moveless, silent, stern. 

“ I will obey you — I will go,” he cried at last. “ I will 
never cross your path again. Only forgive me ! One word 
— one look — to say farewell !” 

But there she stood, immovable in her stony silence. Be* 
neath it his own passionate heart grew still and cold. He 
rose up, pressed his lips once more to her garment’s hem, 
and then crept humbled from her sight. The door closed, 
and Katharine was alone. 

That night there came a messenger to Summerwood with 
tidings awful indeed ! Death had struck the young heir in 
the midst of his careless sports. Death ! sudden death ! 
occasioned unwittingly by his own hand. Poor Hugh — 
kind-hearted, good-natured Hugh, was brought home to 
Summerwood dead ! 

Katharine Ogilvie was a widow. 


CHAPTER LII. 

’Twere sweet to think of— sweeter still 
To hope for — that this blessed end soothes up 
The curse of the beginning ; but I know 
It comes too late. — Robert Browning. 

It was all over, and the unloving wife was free ! 

Free ! when she was haunted perpetually by an aven- 
ging voice, bringing back to her memory the false marriage- 
vow — go rashly taken, so nearly broken — the duties unful- 
filled — the affection unvalued, and requited with scorn. It 


398 


THE OGILVIES. 


was a fearful picture of a wasted life — wasted by the one 
withering shadow — the fatal love ! 

By night and day the young widow watched beside her 
husband’s coffined remains. Father, mother, friends, went 
away weeping, and saying to one another, “ See how dear- 
ly she loved him !” But Katharine shuddered to hear them, 
knowing it was less grief she felt than a bitter, gnawing 
remorse, which cried ever aloud, “ It is too late — too 
late !” 

She thought of her childish days — of Hugh’s old tender- 
ness, so constant and yet so humble — of his patience and 
forbearance during their brief married life. Throughout 
that married life she had met her husband’s unsuspicious 
gaze, knowing that she carried in her heart a secret that 
would destroy his peace forever. And when the end came, 
she had suffered Paul Lynedon to kneel at her feet, giving 
and receiving the confession of unholy love. She had felt, 
with that love, the glow of hatred toward the one wdio 
stood between her and happiness. Nay, there had darted 
across her mind the thought, scarcely formed into a wish, 
that some strange fate would set her free. And even then 
the thought was accomplished. She had withstood the 
tempter, she had kept her marriage-vow, and yet she felt 
almost like Hugh’s murderess. At times her bewildered 
mind strove to palliate the wrong by the self-same plea. 
She remembered that Lynedon’s passionate words had been 
poured into the ears of a widow — not a wife ; and that she 
herself, in repulsing them, had kept faithful — even to the 
dead. 

“And I will still be faithful !” she cried. “ Oh, my hus- 
band ! if I have sinned against you, accept the atonement ! 
Never, never shall my hand clasp his — never shall Hugh’s 
widow become Paul Lynedon’s bride ! Husband ! if I sac- 
rificed your peace, I will offer up myself with my life’s hope 
as an atonement on your grave !” 

Strong was the remorse that prompted the words — deep 
was the shame that uttered them ; but stronger and deep- 
er than either remorse or shame was the undying love 


THE OGILVIES. 


399 


which had created, and yet ruined, the life-destiny of Kath- 
arine Ogilvie. 

Hugh rested in the little church at Summerwood beneath 
a gorgeous monument. Sir Robert had deplored less the 
death of an affectionate son-in-law than the extinction of a 
baronetcy two hundred years old. This antiquity, chron- 
icled in golden letters beneath the weeping marble cheru- 
bim for the benefit of ages to come, was at least some slight 
consolation to the bereaved father-in-law. 

Eleanor wept many an affectionate tear over the brother 
who was so different from herself, and with whom, through 
life, she had held little intercourse. And then she went 
away from Summerwood to fulfill once more the self-as- 
sumed duties of a daughter until they should merge in 
those of a w r ife. 

All the long winter Katharine spent in solitude. “Atone- 
ment — atonement !” was the cry of her anguished spirit, 
and she strove to work out that penance by shutting from 
her heart every thought save the memory of her husband 
— every pleasure save that which grew out of duties ful- 
filled. The mother mourned no longer over her careless 
daughter; Katharine tended her with a contrite tenderness 
that was almost painful to behold. She clung with a ve- 
hement intensity to this pure love, the only one on which 
her memory dared rest in the past — the only one to which 
she looked for comfort in the future. 

So she lived, binding down every impulse in her nature 
with an iron will, born of remorse. She imitated the mar- 
tyrs of old, who thought to win pardon by inflicting on 
themselves a living death. But they only tortured the 
body; Katharine did penance with the soul. The conflict 
was vain, for it sprang from remorse, not penitence. Her 
sorrow could not wash away the suffering or the sin, for 
the drops that fell were not tears, but fire. 

Since the time when she dismissed him from her pres- 
ence, Katharine had never heard of Paul Lynedon. It was 
her prayer — the prayer of her lips, at least — that she might 
never see him more. And when the gloom of winter pass- 

S 


400 


THE OGILVIES. 


eel, and the spring came out upon the earth, creating vague 
yearnings after hope and love, Katharine still sought to 
deaden them with this prayer. But its very utterance 
only made it the more false. Evermore, piercing through 
remorse, indignation, and shame, rose up the face which 
she had last seen bowed before her in such agonizing plead- 
ing, less for love than for pardon. And one day she saw 
that face, not in fancy, but in reality. 

She was on her knees beside her father, in the church at 
Summerwood. The Sabbath sunshine slanted at once on 
the stately monument of her husband and on her own 
drooped head, hidden by the thick widow’s veil. She lift- 
ed it, and beheld Paul Lynedon. 

He sat in a dark corner of the church, intently watching 
her. As Katharine rose, their eyes met, and a numbing 
coldness crept through her veins. Still, she had power to 
answer the gaze with another, fixed, freezing, proud ; and 
then she turned away, nor lifted her eyes again, save to 
the marble tablet which chronicled the brief life of poor 
Hugh. She looked no more toward Lynedon, but she felt 
his eyes upon her and his influence around her. It seemed 
to encompass her with a dim confused mist, through which 
she heard the clergyman’s voice and the organ’s sound in- 
distinctly as in a dream. In vain she tried to break the 
spell, driving her thoughts back to the past — to the death- 
chamber — to the tomb beneath her very feet, where the 
young man was laid in the strength of his youth, hidden in 
darkness from the sunshine and the fresh breeze, and all 
those pleasures of nature which he had loved so well. She 
gathered up every possible image of pain, and pressed it 
with a stony weight upon her heart, but it could not press 
out thence the one image which all her life had reigned 
paramount there. When she passed out of the church, 
clinging to her father’s arm, Katharine’s eyes, impelled by 
an uncontrollable power, looked back for an instant. 

Lynedon watched her. She could not still the rapture 
of her heart — no, not though the spot she stood upon was 
her husband’s grave. 


THE OGILVIES. 


401 


From that day she knew that wherever she went his 
presence encompassed her. If she walked, she saw a figure 
gliding beneath the trees ; if she rode, there echoed far in 
the distance the tramp of a horse’s feet. At night, when 
all were gone to rest, she heard beneath her window a foot- 
step that paced there for hours in the silence and darkness. 
And Katharine, who so long ago had distinguished above 
all others that firm, slow, manly tread, knew that this 
watcher by night as by day was no one but Paul Lynedon. 

Thus weeks passed. She never saw his face except at 
church, and then he always kept aloof. And though once 
or twice she unwittingly looked that way, it was with the 
coldness and sternness that became the wife, the widow of 
Hugh Ogilvie. 

But this could not last. One morning — it was so early 
that the April dews yet glistened in the sunshine — Katha- 
rine took her solitary walk to a glade in the park, which 
had been her favorite haunt in her girlhood. She had 
brought him there long ago, and they had spent an hour’s 
happy talk together, sitting on a fallen tree, half covered 
with ivy, while she sang. He had carved thereon her in- 
itials and his own. They were there still : Katharine 
moved aside the ivy which had grown over them, and 
leaned down, gazing, till her eyes were blinded with tor- 
rents of tears. 

And then, emerging from the shadow of the trees, she 
saw Lynedon stand before her. 

Her first impulse was to fly, but she had no strength ; 
and when she looked at him again, the intention was 
changed into another feeling. He was so altered, so hag- 
gard and stooping, that he might have borne the burden 
of more than forty years. The eye had grown wild and 
restless, the brow was marked with many a line, and the 
dark, beautiful hair was threaded with gray. He stood 
there, and only uttered one word — 

“ Katharine !” 

Hearing it, she rose, and her eyes flashed through the 
tears which filled them. “Why do you come here? why 













THE OGILVIES. 


403 


weeks past I have tracked your walks only to catch a 
glimpse of your dress, or see the print of your footsteps ; 
then at night I have prowled like a thief under your win- 
dow, watching while you slept. But I dared not enter 
your presence ; I would never have done so, save that I 
saw you weeping. Is not this love ? is not this penitence ?” 

She looked at him only once, but he gathered courage, 
and went on. “ Why should we not be happy ? If we 
erred, you will pardon me, and Heaven will forgive us both. 
Katharine, you shall bring back to me my youth, you shall 
make me what you will ; we will live over again the hap- 
py past.” 

“ Not the past,” cried Katharine ; “ we have no past — we 
dare not have.” 

“ But we have a future, that is, if you will listen to me, 
and not forsake me. If otherwise, Katharine, shall I tell 
you what you will do ?” And, as Paul stood over her, his 
wild eyes sought hers, terrifying her more even than his 
Words : “ You will drive me from you a vagabond on the 
face of the earth : there is no evil which I shall not com- 
mit, or else I shall die — die miserably, perhaps by my own 
hand.” 

“ No, no, Paul — my Paul ! You shall not grow wicked ; 
you shall not die ; I will save you, if I peril my hope of 
heaven for your sake !” was the bitter cry that burst from 
Katharine’s heart and lips as she clasped both his hands 
and held them long, weeping over them passionately. 

Lynedon made her sit down on the fallen tree, while he 
threw back the veil from her face, and removed from her 
fair head, so youthful still, the tokens of widowhood. As 
he did so, he cast them down with a violent gesture and 
trampled them under foot. Then he took her hand and be- 
gan to draw from it the wedding-ring ; but Katharine start- 
ed from him. 

“ Paul, I am very guilty, but it is for your sake ; you 
should not torture me thus. Listen. When my husband 
— hush ! I will call him so still, for he was good to me — 
when my husband died, I vowed to atone unto the dead for 


404 


THE OGILVIES. 


my sins toward the living. I said in my heart, solemnly 
and truly, then, that I would never be your wife. Now I 
break that vow — the second I have broken for you. Paul, 
it is a fearful thing to have this upon my soul. You must 
be very kind and tender to me — you must let me wait a 
year — two years — until all this horror has passed, and 
then — ” 

“ You will be mine — my own wife ?” cried Lynedon, joy- 
fully. He knelt beside her on the grass, and would have 
folded her in his arms, but Katharine drew back. 

“ Not yet — not yet,” she muttered. “ It seems as though 
he stood between us — he, my husband — he will not let me 
come to you. This happiness will be too late ! I know it 
will.” 

And while she spoke she drew her breath with a deep 
sigh, and put her hand suddenly to her heart. 

“ What ails you, Katharine, my darling ?” 

“Nothing — the pain will pass soon — I am used to it. 
Let me rest my head here,” she answered, faintly. He 
stood by her side, and she leaned against him in silence for 
a few minutes. Then she looked up with a sad, grave 
smile. “ I am well now, thank you ! You see I make you 
my comfort and support already.” 

“ Dearest, how happy am I ! May it be ever so !” was 
the low, loving answer. Her face was hid from him, or he 
would have seen that there passed over it a spasm of agony 
awakened by his words. 

Then it was that Katharine felt the curse of a granted 
prayer. The death so madly longed for was now a horri- 
ble doom ! To die in the midst of youth and hope — to 
leave him — to go into the still, dark grave without the 
blessing of his love — it was fearful! 

“ Paul, Paul, save me !” she almost shrieked. “ Hold me 
in your arms — fast — fast ! Do not let me die !” 

He thought her words were mere ravings, and asked no 
questions, but soothed her tenderly. After a while she 
spoke again, not wildly, but solemnly : 

“ Paul, a little while since I told you that it must be a 


THE OGILVIES. 


405 


year or more before you made me yours. But I shall not 
live till then.” 

He looked anxiously on her face and form. There was 
no outward sign of wasted health, so he smiled calmly. 

“ These fears are nothing, my Katharine ; you shall have 
many happy years. I will end all such forebodings when 
you give me the right to do so — when you let me call you 
wife.” 

“ You may call me so when you will,” answered Katha- 
rine, in a low tone. “A month, a week — ay, who knows 
how soon the end may come ! But I will defy fate ! Paul 
— my Paul — my only love !” — and she threw herself upon 
his breast, clinging to him wildly — “I will not be torn 
from you — I will live until that blessed day !” 

Lynedon, only too joyful on any terms to win his bride, 
overwhelmed her with the outburst of his happiness. He 
counted all her fears as an idle dream ; and, ere they left 
the dell, he had fixed the first May-morning for their mar- 
riage day. 

“ It will indeed be May-time with us then,” he said, as 
with an almost boyish fondness he leaned over her and 
fastened her bonnet. “And this dear head shall have that 
hateful veil no more, but a bridal garland.” 

“ And afterward — afterward !” murmured Katharine. 
But she drove back the chilling horror — she looked in the 
glad face of her bridegroom — she leaned on his arm as they 
walked slowly on, with sunshine and flowers, and birds sing- 
ing every where around them. 

Could it be that over all this bliss frowned the heavy 
shadow of Death ? 

27 


406 


THE OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER LHI. 

Scarce I heed 

These pangs. Yet thee to leave is death — is death indeed! 
******* 

Yet seems it, even while life’s last pulses run, 

A sweetness in the cup of death to be, 

Lord of my bosom’s love, to die beholding thee ! — C ampbell. 

Katharine informed neither father nor mother of her 
approaching marriage. Sir Robert would have talked of 
“ the honor of the family,” which forbade even the most 
desirable second union until the days of mourning were 
ended. And Lady Ogilvie, who now rested tranquilly in 
the knowledge that she would never be parted from her 
daughter, would have bitterly murmured at the faintest 
hint of separation. Katharine knew all this, and prepared 
for a secret union — unhallowed by a parent’s blessing. 

Only once, by her earnest desire, Lynedon, almost against 
his will, came openly to Summerwood. He spent a few 
hours with Sir Robert, striving to act the part of a chance 
guest, and then Katharine brought him to her mother’s 
apartment. He sat down by Lady Ogilvie’s side, and talk- 
ed to her in a tone so gentle and tender that Katharine 
blessed him with her whole soul. She longed to throw her- 
self at her mother’s feet, beseeching her to take to her heart 
as a son this dearest one in whom was centred her child’s 
every hope. But just then Lady Ogilvie chanced to speak, 
and her first words made Katharine’s impulse change. 

“ Yes, as you say, Mr. Lynedon, I am much better than I 
used to be. It is all Katharine’s doing ; the very sight of 
her seems to make me young again. I feel quite different 
since she has come back to live at Summerwood. She must 
never leave me again.” 

Lynedon made no reply. He had long since abandoned 
all false and feigning speech. Such could not be uttered 


THE OGILVIES. 


407 


beneath Katharine’s eye, or within the influence of Katha- 
rine’s soul. 

Ere he departed, Paul took Lady Ogilvie’s hand with 
affectionate reverence, and said softly, “ I shall not see you 
again for a little while. Will you not bid me farewell, and 
good speed on my journey ? for it is a sweet and solemn 
one to me. And — the next time I come to Summerwood 
it will not be alone.” 

“ What, Mr. Lynedon ! you are going to be married at 
last? I do not like weddings — not much — but I hope yours 
will be a happy one. And who is your bride ?” 

“You will know soon.” And Paul drooped his head — 
he could not bear to look in Lady Ogilvie’s face. “ Only, 
dear friend, our wedding shall miss one happiness. I have 
no mother to bless my bride. Let me take her a kind wish 
and a blessing from you.” 

“Indeed you must. I am sure we shall like her very 
much, whoever she be — shall we not, Katharine ? Good-by, 
Mr. Lynedon ; and God bless you and your wife, and give 
you a long and happy life together.” 

Paul Lynedon kissed the hand that she extended to him, 
and was gone. 

That night Katharine stood beside her sleeping mother, 
to take, in one long, lingering, tearful look, the farewell 
w T hich she could not utter. Yet it would be but a short 
parting ; for she had made her lover promise that, once 
united beyond the chances of earthly severance, they should 
both hasten to entreat forgiveness and blessing. 

The blessing seemed on Lady Ogilvie’s prophetic lips 
even now. Her fancy returned in dreams to the tidings 
of which she had often spoken during the day ; and as 
Katharine leaned over her, she heard her mother repeat 
once again, mingled with a benediction, the name of Lyne- 
don. 

It sounded like a late hallowing of the love which had 
sprung up in such uncontrolled vehemence, and come to 
maturity in a passion that trembled on the very verge of 
crime. 


408 


THE OGILVIES. 


Katharine sank on her knees beside the bed. “ Oh that 
it may indeed be so; that Heaven may forgive us both, 
and suffer us to atone the past ! And, mother, surely, re- 
echoing your words, I dare now cry ‘ God bless my Paul — ■ 
my own Paul !’ ” 

Lady Ogilvie moved in her sleep, disturbed by the last 
pressure of her daughter’s lips ; and then, stealing one lin- 
gering farewell gaze, Katharine glided from the room. Ere 
long, accompanied by an old, faithful servant who had been 
her nurse, she quitted her father’s house. 

The place chosen for the marriage was a village some 
miles distant, where the nurse’s daughter lived. Beneath 
the roof of this little cottage, which in its rose-embowered 
beauty had been the very paradise of her childhood, Kath- 
arine spent the eve of her second bridal. It was strangely 
quiet — like the first — for the intensity of suffering and of 
joy are very near akin. But Lynedon’s bride felt no ex- 
cess of joy ; a solemn shadow hung over her which she 
could not dispel. Through it, she heard the chimes from 
the near church-tower ring out the passing of the brief 
May-eve ; and then she lay down and slept — ay, slept ! 

She was awakened at dawn by the rooks, who from their 
lofty nests made merry music over the old church-yard. 
Katharine rose up, and the first sight that met her eyes 
was the white grave-stones that glimmered in the yet faint 
light. Strange and solemn vision for a bride on her mar- 
riage-morn ! Katharine turned away, and looked up at the 
sky. It was all gray and dark, for the shadow of the vil- 
lage church — the church where she was to plight her vows 
— came between her and the sunrise. 

She buried her head again in the pillow, and tried to 
realize the truth, that this day — this very day — Paul Lyne- 
don would be her husband, loving her as she had once so 
vainly loved him; that she would never part from him 
again, but be his own wife, forever — through life until 
death. Until death ! She thought the words, she did not 
say them, but they filled her with a cold, dull fear. To 
drive it away, she arose. She would have put on her wed- 


THE OGILVIES. 


409 


ding -dress — almost as a spell, that the bridal garment 
might bring with it happy bridal thoughts — but it was not 
in her room. So Katharine dressed herself once more in 
her widow’s attire, and waited until the rest of the house- 
hold were stirring. 

Meanwhile there recurred to her mind a loving duty that 
befitted the time. She sat down and wrote to her mother 
a long, tender letter, not proud, but contrite, pleading for 
pardon and a kindly welcome, less for herself than for her 
husband — Katharine paused an instant. “ Yes !” she said, 
“ he will be my husband ; no earthly power can come be- 
tween us now.” Her pen traced the word firmly ; the mere 
writing of it sent happiness to her heart. As she went on, 
the pleading grew into a confession, and she unburdened 
from her soul the weight of years. Humbly, repentantly, 
she told of that overwhelming love which had come upon 
her like a fate, and had haunted her through life until it be= 
came its own avenger. She omitted no link in this terrible 
history save that one which might bring shame upon him 
whose honor was soon to be one with hers. 

Katharine finished the letter all but the signature. A 
few hours more, and she would write as her own that long- 
beloved name. The thought came upon her with a flood 
of bewildering joy. She leaned her forehead on the paper 
in one long, still pause, and then sprang up, pressing her 
clasped hands in turns to her heaving breast and throbbing 
temples in a delirium of rapture that was almost pain. 

“It is true— it is all true!” she cried; “joy has come at 
last. In an hour — one little hour, I shall be his wife ; and 
he will be my husband — mine only — mine forever !” 

As she stood, her once drooping form was sublimated 
into almost superhuman beauty — the beauty which had 
dawned with the dawning love. It was the same face, ra- 
diant with the same shining which had kindled into passion- 
ate hope the young girl who once gazed into the mirror at 
Summerwood. But ten times more glorious was the love* 
liness born of the hope fulfilled. 

The hope fulfilled! Could it be so, when, excited by this 


410 


THE OGILYIES. 


frenzied joy, there darted through her heart that warning 
pang ? She sank on the bed almost senseless. Above the 
morning sounds without — the bees humming among the 
roses, the swallows twittering in the eaves — Katharine 
heard and felt beating with fierce, loud, suffocating throbs, 
the death-pulse, which warned her that her hours were num- 
bered. 

To die, so young still, so full of life and love — to sink 
from Lynedon’s very arms into the grave — to pass from 
this spring sunshine into darkness, silence, nothingness ! It 
was a horrible doom ! And it might come at any moment 
— soon — soon — perhaps even before the bridal ! 

“ It shall not come !” shrieked the voice of Katharine’s 
despair, though her palsied lips scarcely gave vent to the 
sound. “ I will live to be his wife, if only for one week, one 
day, one hour ! Love has conquered life — it shall conquer 
death ! I will not die /” 

She held her breath ; she strove to press down the pulsa- 
tions that stirred her very garments; she moved her cold, 
feeble limbs, and stood upright. 

“ I must be calm— very calm. What is this poor weak 
body to my strong soul ? I will fight with death— I will 
drive it from me. Love is alone my life : while that lasts 
I can not die !” 

But still the loud beating choked her very breath as she 
moaned, “Paul, Paul, come ! Save me, clasp me ; give me 
life — life !” 

And while she yet called upon his name, Katharine heard 
from below the voice of her bridegroom. He came bound- 
ing over the little gate, and entered the rose-porch, wearing 
a bridegroom’s most radiant mien. She saw him; she 
heard him asking for her ; a perceptible anxiety trembled 
through his cheerful tone. Could she cast over his happi- 
ness the cold horror which froze her own ? Could she tell 
him that his bride was doomed? No; she would smile 
upon him, she would bring him joy, even to the last. 

“ Tell him I am coming,” she said, in a calm, cheerful 
voice to the nurse, who repeated Lynedon’s anxious sum- 


THE OGILVIES. 


411 


mons. And then Katharine bathed her temples, smoothed 
her hair, and went to meet her bridegroom. 

After the first somewhat agitated greeting was over, 
Lynedon regarded her uneasily. “ What is this, Katha- 
rine ?” and he touched her mourning dress, which she had 
forgotten to remove. 

She made no answer, but mechanically followed the old 
nurse, who led her hastily away to take off the ill-omened 
garment. When she reappeared, Paul looked at her admir- 
ingly, smoothed the folds of her white gown, and passed 
his hand lovingly over the shining braids of her beautiful 
hair — no longer hidden under the widow’s cap. 

“ Now you look like a bride, though your dress is so sim- 
ple. But we will have store of ornaments yet. Not a lady 
in England shall outshine my Katharine. And when we 
have a rich, beautiful, happy home, perhaps some time her 
wish may come true, and she may be the wife of a great 
statesman yet. But, darling, you shiver ! How cold these 
spring mornings are still !” 

He drew her from the window and made her sit down. 
They went through the form of breakfast, in order to please 
the anxious mistress of the little cottage parlor. Lynedon 
still talked of his plans — their plans, seeking few replies. 
Only once he thought his bride appeared grave, and asked 
her if she were quite content — quite happy. 

“ Yes,” she said, and turned toward him, her lips smiling. 
He kissed their rich rosy curves ; he never looked at her 
eyes. 

When the hour approached they were summoned by the 
old nurse, the only wedding guest. 

“ Ours is a strange, informal marriage,” said Lynedon, 
with a disappointed air. “ But we will make amends for 
it. When we take our beautiful house, we will have a mer- 
ry coming home.” 

Katharine sank on a chair. “ Hush ! Paul ; do not talk 
to me — not now.” 

He might have murmured a little, but the tone of her 
voice filled him with an inexplicable awe. He was rather 


412 


THE OGILVIES. 


agitated, too, as the time approached. So he drew her arm 
through his, and they walked in silence through the haw- 
thorn-scented lane that led to the church. 

At the little wicket-gate w T hich formed the entrance to 
the village sanctuary Katharine paused. The church-yard 
was a fair sight. The sunshine sparkled dazzlingly on the 
white stones, which had looked so ghost-like in the dawn ; 
and every green nameless hillock had its flower-epitaph 
written in daisy-stars. Many a cheerful sound pervaded 
the spot, for it was bounded on one side by several cot- 
tages, whose inmates had made this quiet resting-place of 
the dead a garden for the living. A narrow pathway only 
divided the flower-beds from the graves, and among them 
both the cottage children played all day long. There was 
no yew nor cypress to cast gloom on the place, but lead- 
ing to the church-door was an avenue of limes, in whose 
fragrant branches the bees kept up a pleasant murmur. 
And the merry rookery close by was never silent from 
dawn till eve. It was a place that made Death beautiful, 
as it should be. 

Katharine looked — and a little of the freezing horror 
passed from her. “It would not be so terrible to sleep 
here,” she whispered, half to herself, “ with sunshine and 
flowers, and children’s voices above. Paul, when I die ” — 
and she uttered the words with less terror, though solemnly 
— “ when I die, do not let them take me to that gloomy 
vault at Summenvood; and put no stone over me — only 
grass. I think I could rest then.” 

Lynedon turned toward her with a smile. “ Katharine, 
dearest, how idly you are talking ! You would not leave 
me, would you ?” 

“No, no !” cried Katharine, with vehemence ; and as she 
clung to her bridegroom’s arm, and looked up into his eyes, 
the olden madness came over her, and she could have bar- 
tered life, hope, peace — nay, Heaven itself, for Paul Lyne- 
aon’s love. She stood in the sunshine — she felt the breeze 
• — his presence surrounded her — his tenderness filled her 
whole soul with bliss. The terrible phantom at her side 


THE OGILVIES. 


413 


grew dim. She forgot all things on earth save that she 
was Paul Lynedon’s bride. 

At that instant they passed out of the sunshine into the 
heavy gloom that pervaded the church. It felt like enter- 
ing a tomb. 

A few minutes’ space, and the scene which the young 
dreamer had once conjured up became reality. Katharine 
knelt at the altar to give and receive the vow which made 
her Lynedon’s bride. Through the silence of the desolate 
church was heard the low mumbling of the priest — a feeble 
old man. He joined the hands of the bridegroom and the 
bride, and then there darted through Katharine’s memory 
another scene. As she felt the touch of Paul Lynedon’s 
hand, she almost expected to hear a long-silenced voice ut- 
tering, not the marriage benediction, but the awful service 
for the dead. 

They rose up man and wife. The old nurse came for- 
ward with her tearful congratulations ; and the clergyman, 
as he clutched his withered fingers over the golden fee, mut- 
tered something about “ long life and happiness.” There 
was no other blessing on the bride. 

But she needed none. The whole wide world was noth- 
ing to her now. She only held the hand which pressed her 
own with a tender though somewhat agitated clasp, and 
said to herself, “ I am his — he is mine — forever.” They 
walked in silence from the church, down the lane, through 
the rose-porch, and into the cottage parlor. Then Katha- 
rine felt herself drawn closely, passionately, into his very 
heart ; and she heard the words, once so wildly prayed for, 
“ My Katharine — my wife /” 

In that embrace — in that one long, never-ending kiss — 
she could willingly have passed from life into eternity. 

After a while they both began to talk calmly. Paul 
made her sit by the oj)en window, while he leaned over her, 
pulling the roses from outside the casement, and throwing 
them leaf by leaf into her lap. While he did so, she took 
courage to tell him of the letter to her mother. He mur- 
mured a little at the full confession, but when he read it 


414 


THE OGILVIES. 


he only blessed her the more for her tenderness toward 
himself. 

“ May I grow worthy of such love, my Katharine !” he 
said, for the moment deeply touched. “ But we must not 
be sad, dearest. Come, sign your name — your new name. 
Are you content to bear it ?” continued he, with a smile. 

Her answer was another, radiant with intense love and 
perfect joy. Paul looked over her while she laid the paper 
on the rose -strewed window-sill, and wrote the words 
“ Katharine Lynedon .” 

She said them over to herself once or twice with a lov- 
ing intonation, and then turned her face on her bridegroom’s 
arm, weeping. 

“Do not chide me, Paul: I am so happy — so happy! 
Now I begin to hope that the past may be forgiven us — 
that we may have a future yet.” 

“We may? We will” was Lynedon’s answer. While 
he spoke, through the hush of that glad May-noon came a 
sound — dull, solemn ! Another, and yet another ! It was 
the funeral bell tolling from the near church-tower. 

Katharine lifted up her face white and ghastly. “ Paul, 
do you hear that ?” and her voice was shrill with terror. 
“ It is our marriage-peal : we have no other — we ought not 
to have. I knew it was too late !” 

“Nay, my own love,” answered Paul, becoming alarmed 
at her look. He drew her nearer to him, but she seemed 
neither to hear his voice nor to feel his clasp. 

The bell sounded again. “ Hark ! hark !” Katharine cried. 
“ Paul, do you remember the room where we knelt, you and 
I ; and he joined our hands, and said the words, ‘ Earth to 
earth — ashes to ashes ?’ It will come true : I know it will, 
and it is right it should.” 

Lynedon took his bride in his arms, and endeavored to 
calm her. He half succeeded, for she looked up in his face 
with a faint smile. “ Thank you ! I know you love me, 
my own Paul, my — ” Suddenly her voice ceased. With 
a convulsive movement she put her hand to her heart, and 
her head sank on her husband’s breast. 


THE OGILVIES. 


415 


That instant the awful summons came. Without a 
word, or sigh, or moan, the spirit passed ! 

Katharine was dead. But she died on Paul Lynedon’s 
breast, knowing herself his wife, beloved even as she had 
loved. Let us not pity her. Oftentimes living is harder 
than dying. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

She was his own — both, Love’s. 

. . . Bliss unspeakable 

Became at once then* being and its food ; 

The world they did inhabit was themselves, 

And they were Love’s, and all their world was good. 

Oh ye whose hearts in happy love repose, 

Your thankful blessings at its footstool lay, 

Since faith and peace can issue from its woes. 

Westland Marston. 

It was the early twilight of a winter’s day, clear and 
cold, though not frosty. The fire burned merrily in a cheer- 
ful room — the drawing-room of one of those pretty homes, 
half cottage, half villa, which stud the environs of the me- 
tropolis. But no hateful London sights and sounds reached 
this dwelling, for it stood on a fresh, breezy hillside, and 
the wind that now came whistling round had swept over 
an open champaign, and had shaken the blossom from acres 
of yellow furze. This region wore no resemblance to the 
weary desert of London ; and though from one spot on the 
hilltop you could see the vast cloud-hung metropolis lying 
far beneath, it looked less like reality than a shadowy city 
seen in dreams. Turning your steps another way, you 
might sit down under a fir-grove, and gaze over a wide ex- 
panse of field, wood, and water, stretching for miles toward 
the west ; and in the summer, at evening time, with the 
sunset light fluttering on the boles of the fir-trees, and the 
wind harping musically in their topmost branches, you 
might fancy yourself in a very fairy-land. 

Within the house, which lay close beside, was fairy-land 


416 


THE OGILVIES. 


too — a paradise of home. It was not made so by costly 
furniture, but its appendages bespoke what is better than 
wealth — taste and refinement. These extended their in- 
fluence even to trifles. The crimson curtains, looped up 
with graceful ornaments ; the mirror, set in its fanciful 
carved flowers ; the mantel-pi6ce, with its delicate freight 
of Greek vases and one or two statuettes, showed how a 
beautiful mind can assemble all beautiful things around it 
The walls were hung, not with pictures, for such worthily 
painted are within the reach of few, but with prints from 
masters ancient and modern. One could see at once that 
in this new home — for it was a new home — these treasures 
of Art would be loved as household comforts, reverenced 
as household gods. Books, too, there were — not exhibited 
in glass cases under lock and key, but strewed here and 
there as if meant to be read ; and the open piano showed 
its ivory smile, like the cheerful welcoming face of a dear 
friend : it seemed to know, instinctively, that it would be 
courted as such in this happy home. 

There was no sign of other inhabitant until the door 
opened, and a light creeping step crossed the yet untrod- 
den carpet. The shadow in the mirror was that of a wom- 
an in mourning, but whose meek, placid face showed that 
the garb was now worn less for sorrow than for tender 
memory. 

She stirred the fire, drew the curtains, lighted the lamp, 
and looked about the room, performing many a little need- 
less office which spoke of loving expectation. Then she 
sat down, but rose up every five minutes to peer through 
the curtains out into the night. She started at hearing a 
ring at the bell, but composed herself, saying, half aloud, 
that “ it could not be they, for there were no carriage- 
wheels.” Still she was a little tremulous and agitated 
when the door opened, and the pretty-looking white-rib- 
boned maid announced Mr. David Drysdale. 

“Too soon, I see; but I thought I might venture to take a 
peep at the little nest before the birds came in it, especially 
as you’re here. Very glad to see you, Mrs. Penny thorne.” 


THE OGILVIES. 


417 


She gave him her hand and asked him to sit down, rather 
hesitatingly. She was always very much afraid of David 
Drysdale. But she need not, for the sharpness in his man- 
ner had long since been softened to her. 

“Thank you. I will stay a few minutes, just to look 
round, and hear about the young couple. When do they 
come home ?” 

“ To-night,” was the answer. “ They have had a month’s 
traveling, and Mrs.Wychnor wants to keep this New-year’s 
Eve at home” 

“ Home ! It sounds a sweet word to them now, I dare 
say. I can understand it better since I’ve studied the sci- 
ence of human nature,” said Drysdale, musing. “ I did not 
like Philip’s marrying at first: a great mind should do 
without love and all that — I did. But maybe he was right. 
Perhaps the lark would not soar with so strong a wing, or 
sing so loud and high, if it had not a snug little nest on the 
ground.” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Penny thorne — seeing that he looked 
at her, though she did not quite understand what he was 
talking about. 

Drysdale gave a grunt and stopped. After a minute’s 
silence he uttered the rather suspicious remark, “ I hope 
Master Philip’s wife is a woman with brains ?” 

“ She is very clever, I believe, and she loves him so dear- 
ly ! There is not a sweeter creature living than Miss Elea- 
nor — Mrs.Wychnoi that is now. Do you know,” and Mrs. 
Pennythorne seemed becoming positively eloquent, “ she 
would not even consent to be married until she had nursed 
poor Lady Ogilvie through her long illness, never quitting 
her until she died.” 

“Ah !” said David, looking very grave, “ that was an aw- 
ful story ! I always said there was . something not right 
about Lynedon. He wasn’t a true soul /” and the energetic 
hand came down upon the table with a sound that quite 
startled Mrs. Pennythorne. 

“ I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Drysdale went on, “ but 
when I think of that poor Mrs. Ogilvie, it makes me hate 


418 


THE OGILVIES. 


him. Mrs. Lancaster would have told line lies about them 
if Philip Wychnor had not stopped her mouth. But I new 
er believed any thing against that beautiful, earnest-heart- 
ed creature.” 

“Nor I — for her poor mother died speaking quite hap- 
pily of the dear Katharine whom she was going to meet. 
And I do believe, Mr. Drysdale, that she knew the whole 
story, though no one else did. I fancied, and Miss Eleanor 
did too, that it was told in the letter which Mrs. Ogilvie 
wrote just before that strange wedding. We found it un- 
der the mother’s pillow, and it was put into her coffin by 
her own desire.” 

“ Poor things ! Well, it’s better to give up the humani- 
ties altogether. One can make very tolerable children of 
one’s books — quiet babies, too; always turn out well, and 
don’t die before one’s self. Perhaps, some of these days, 
our young friend here may envy such a ragged, childless 
old philosopher as I.” 

But just then, as Drysdale looked on the cheerful smiling 
room, and thought of his own gloomy attic, the faintest 
shadow of a doubt crossed his mind. Mrs. Pennythorne 
sat gazing on the fire, the expression of her soft brown eyes 
deepened by a memory which his words had awakened — 
a memory not sad now, but calm and holy. If the newly- 
married pair could have beheld her, and then regarded the 
quaint, restless-eyed, lonely old man, they would have clasp- 
ed each other’s hands, and entered on life without fear, 
knowing that “ it was not good for man to be alone.” 

David Drysdale staid a little while longer, and then de- 
parted. Mrs. Pennythorne’s thoughtful mood might have 
ended in sadness but that she found it necessary to bestir 
herself in erasing the marks of tw r o muddy, clumsy boots 
from the pretty carpet. She had scarcely succeeded when 
the long-desired arrival was heard. 

Who shall describe the blessed coming home — the 
greeting, all smiles, and tears, and broken words; the 
happy, admiring glances around; the fireside corner, 
made ready for the bride; the busy handmaid, rich in 


THE OGILYIES. 


419 


curtseys and curiosity — until the door closes upon the lit- 
tle group ? 

“ Now, my Eleanor,” said the young husband, “ welcome 
home !” 

“Welcome home!” echoed Mrs. Penny thorne, ready to 
weep. But very soon Philip took her hand, and Eleanor 
fell on her neck and kissed her almost like a daughter. 
Then they both thanked her tenderly, arid said how pleas- 
ant it was to have her kind face awaiting them on their ar- 
rival. 

“ You will stay with us and keep this New-year’s Eve, 
dear friend ?” said Philip. It certainly cost him something 
to give the invitation, but he did it warmly and sincerely, 
feeling it was due. 

However, Mrs. Pennythorne did not accept it. She nev- 
er left her husband in an evening now, she said ; and she 
had not far to go — only to her son’s, where they were stay- 
ing with Fred. “ He rather likes to have us there, now 
Isabella is so much away ; and we like it too, because of the 
baby. It is a great comfort to have a grandchild ; and he 
is such a beauty !” said Mrs. Pennythorne. “ I sometimes 
think he has my Leigh’s eyes, but I would not let them call 
him Leigh.” And though she spoke contentedly, and 
even smiled, it was easy to see that the mother’s thoughts 
were with her lost darling still. 

Then she went away, and the husband and wife stood 
for the first time by their own hearth — not quite calmly, 
perhaps, for Philip’s voice trembled, and Eleanor’s long 
lashes were cast down, glittering with a joyful tear. But 
the husband kissed it away, and then stretched himself out 
in the arm-chair, book in hand, to “ act the lazy,” as he said, 
while she made tea. He did not read much, apparently, 
for he held the volume upside down ; and when his wife 
stood beside him with the tea, he drew her bright face 
down to his with a fondness that threw both cup and sau- 
cer into imminent peril. 

Then they wandered together about the room and the 
house, admiring every thing, and talking of a thousand 


420 


THE OGILVIES. 


h a PPy plans. Eleanor sat down to the piano and began to 
sing, but her tones faltered more than once ; and Philip 
tried to read aloud, but it would not do — both their hearts 
were full of a happiness too tremulous and deep. At last 
Eleanor made her husband lean back in his arm-chair, while 
she came and sat at his feet, laying her head on his knee. 
Thus they rested, listening to the wailing of the stormy 
wind outside, which made more blessed the peace and still- 
ness of their own dear home. 

They talked not wholly of joy, but of gone-by sorrow — 
even of death. They spoke with a solemn tenderness of 
Hugh — of Katharine; and then of him who, if still living, 
was to them as one numbered with the dead. Paul Lyne- 
don had passed away, and was seen no more. He went 
abroad. Whether he wore out existence in anguished sol- 
itude, or sought oblivion in reckless pleasure — perhaps 
crime — no one then knew, and no one ever did know. Even 
his name had left no record save on a little daisy-covered 
grave, which bore the inscription “ Katharine Lynedon.” 

“And, dearest !” said Philip, “ when I stood beside it last, 
in that peaceful, smiling church -yard — where you and I 
will go to see it one day — I thought of the almost frenzied 
man who drove me from him, venting his sorrow in curses. 
Perchance the poor heart beneath my feet might have lived 
to know a bitterer sorrow still. And I said to myself, ‘ So 
best ! so best !’ ” 

Eleanor kissed the hand on which her cheek rested, and 
both fell into a thoughtful silence. Then they spoke no 
more of the past. Hour by hour the old year waned, and 
the young husband and wife still sat talking, in happy yet 
grave confidence, of their coming future — of Philip’s future, 
for hers was absorbed in his. 

“ It shall be a life good, and great, and full of honor,” said 
the wife, fondly ; “ I know it will !” 

“ If I can make it so, Heaven helping me,” answered Phil- 
ip. “ But, Eleanor, darling, it is a hard life, too. We, who 
work at once with heart, soul, and brain, have many a temp- 
tation to struggle with, and many a sorrow to bear; and 


THE OGILVIES. 


421 


tshey who love us must bear much likewise for us and with 
us — sometimes even from us.” 

“ I fear not,” whispered Eleanor ; “ I, too, will enter on 
my life, saying, in my husband’s words, 4 Heaven helping 
me.’ And Heaven will help us both ; and we will walk to- 
gether, hand in hand, each doing our appointed work until 
our lives’ end.” 

“Be it even so, my true wife, the help-meet God has given 
me !” was the low answer. 

“And, my own husband, when, after all our sorrows, we 
rest here heart to heart, looking back on the past as on a 
troubled dream, wherein we remember only the love that 
shone through all, let us think of those who still go in dark- 
ness, loving, struggling, suffering. Let us pray that they 
may have strength to endure, waiting until the light come. 
Oh Philip, God grant that all who love purely, truly, faith- 
fully, may find at last, like us, a blessed home !” 

“Amen !” said Philip Wychnor. 

And with that prayer the first hour of the New Year 
struck. 


THE END. 


I 


* 






By S. R. CROCKETT 


KIT KENNEDY— COUNTRY BOY. Illustrated by 
A. I. Keller. 

THE RED AXE. A Novel Illustrated by Frank 
Richards. 

Mr. Crockett can always be depended upon for a good story, 
and his many admirers will not be disappointed by “ The Red 
Axe,” which is an uncommonly strong novel of adventure.— 
Brooklyn Standard - Union. 

LOCHINVAR. A Novel. Illustrated by T. de Thul- 
strup. 

Admirers of S. R. Crockett will find occasion for neither sur- 
prise nor disappointment in his new story, “ Lochinvar.” It is 
just what we might expect of him after the assurance his other 
writings have given of the stability of his capacity for fine roman- 
tic fiction. He gives every indication that he is in the plenitude 
of his powers and graces as a constructionist and narrator.— 
Washington Times. 

THE GRAY MAN. A Novel. Illustrated by Sey- 
mour Lucas, R.A. 

A strong book, . . . masterly in its portrayals of character and 
historic events. — Boston Gongregationalist. 

Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50 per volume. 


HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

K^TAny of the above works will be sent by mail , postage prepaid , 
to any part of the United States , Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of 
the price. 


By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 


LITERARY FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE. Illustrated. 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 50. 

THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY. Two Volume Ill’d 
Edition, $5 00 ; Regular Edition, $1 50. 

RAGGED LADY. A Novel. $1 75. 

THE STORY OF A PLAY. A Novel. $1 50. 

THE LANDLORD AT LION’S HEAD. A Novel. Illustrated. 
$1 75. 

MY LITERARY PASSIONS. $1 50. 

THE DAY OF THEIR WEDDING. A Story. Illustrated 
by T. de Thulstrup. $1 25. 

A TRAVELER FROM ALTRURIA. A Romance. $1 50. 

THE COAST OF BOHEMIA. A Novel. Illustrated. $1 50. 
THE WORLD OF CHANCE. A Novel. $1 50. 

ANNIE KILBURN. A Novel. $1 50. 

AN IMPERATIVE DUTY. A Novel. $100. 

AN OPEN-EYED CONSPIRACY. An Idyl of Saratoga. 
$1 00 . 

THE QUALITY OF MERCY. A Novel. $1 50. 

A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES. A Novel. Two Volumes. 
$2 00 . 

APRIL HOPES. A Novel. $1 50. 

THE SHADOW OF A DREAM. A Story. $1 00. 

MODERN ITALIAN POETS. Essays and Versions. With 
Portraits. $2 00. 

THE MOUSE-TRAP, and Other Farces. Illustrated. $1 00. 


IMPRESSIONS AND EXPERIENCES. Essays. Post 8vo 
Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1 50. 

STOPS OF VARIOUS QUILLS. Poems. Illustrated by 
<E yle> 4 . t0 ’. Clot,K Ornamental. Uncut Edges and 
Gilt Top, $2 50. Limited Edition on Hand-made Paper signed 
by Author and Artist, $15 00. ’ 8 


By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS — Continued. 

CRITICISM AND FICTION. With Portrait. 16mo, Cloth, 
$1 00 . 

A PARTING AND A MEETING. A Story. Illustrated. 
Square 32mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY, and Other Stories. Illustrated. 
Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25. 

A BOY’S TOWN. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25. 

In Harper's “ Black and White Series" : 

MY YEAR IN A LOG CABIN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 
cents. 

A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 
cents. 

FARCES : A Likely Story — The Mouse- Trap— Five o’Clock 
Tea — Evening Dress — The Unexpected Guests — A Letter 
of Introduction — The Albany Depot— The Garroters. 
Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents each. 

Paper- Covered Editions : 

A Previous Engagement. Illustrated. 50 cents.— A Travel- 
er from Altruria. 50 cents.— The World of Chance. 60 
cents. — TnE Quality of Mercy. 75 cents. — An Imperative 
Duty. 50 cents. — Annie Kilburn. 75 cents. — April Hopes. 
75 cents. — A Hazard of New Fortunes. Illustrated. $1 00. 
—The Shadow of a Dream. 50 cents. 

Mr. Howells knows how to give life and actuality to his characters, 
lie seems, indeed, to be presenting us with a series of portraits. — 
Speaker , London. 

He is one of the authors whom we delight to read, and it is a great 
pleasure to take up a book without a suspicion or a desire to criticise, 
knowing that you will begin all right, go on all right, and come out all 
right. — N. Y. Herald. 


HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid , 
to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico , on receipt of 
the price. 


W. M. THACKERAY’S COMPLETE 
WORKS 

BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION 


This New and Revised Edition Comprises Additional 
Material and Hitherto Unpublished Letters, Sketches, 
and Draivings, Derived from the Author's Original 
Manuscripts and Note-books. 

Edited by Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie. 

1. VANITY FAIR. 7. ESMOND, Etc. 

2. PENDENNIS. 8. THE NEWCOMES. 

3. YELLOWPLUSH 9. CHRISTMAS BOOKS, 

PAPERS, Etc. Etc. 

4. BARRY LYNDON, Etc. 10. THE VIRGINIANS. 

5. SKETCH BOOKS, Etc. 11. PHILIP, Etc. 

6. CONTRIBUTIONS TO 12. DENIS DUVAL, Etc. 

“ PUNCH.” 13. MISCELLANIES, Etc. 

Crown 8vo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $1 75 
per Volume. 


The edition is one which appeals peculiarly to all Thackeray 
lovers. — Philadelphia Ledger. 

Although we are not to have an authorized life of Thackeray, 
we are to have the next best thing, in the notes that his daughter, 
Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, has supplied to the biographical edition of 
her father’s work. — Chicago Tribune. 

The biographical introductions, which promise no little per- 
sonalia fresh to most readers or not before collected, will together 
invest this edition with unique interest and give it a value which 
will easily place it at the head of editions of the great English 
novelist. — Literary World, Boston. 


HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

flglP Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid , 
to any part of the United States, Canada , or Mexico, on receipt of 
the price. 


By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 


HER FIRST APPEARANCE. Printed from type 
in color, with color borders by E. M. ASHE and 
full-page drawings by CHARLES DANA GIB- 
SON. $i 25. 

A YEAR FROM A REPORTER'S NOTE-BOOK. 
Illustrated by R. CATON WOODVILLE, T. DE 
THULSTRUP, and FREDERIC REMINGTON, and 
from Photographs taken by the Author. $1 50. 
THREE GRINGOS IN VENEZUELA AND CEN- 
TRAL AMERICA. Illustrated. $1 50. 

ABOUT PARIS. Illustrated by C. D. GIBSON. 
$1 25. 

THE PRINCESS ALINE. Illustrated by C. D. 
Gibson. $1 25. 

THE EXILES, AND OTHER STORIES. Illus- 
trated. $1 50. 

VAN BIBBER, AND OTHERS. Illustrated by 
C. D. Gibson. $1 00; Paper, 60 cents. 

THE WEST FROM A CAR-WINDOW. Illus- 

trated by Frederic Remington. $1 25. 

OUR ENGLISH COUSINS. Illustrated. $1 25. 
THE RULERS OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
Illustrated. $1 25. 

Post 8vo, Ornamented Cloth. 

Mr. Davis has eyes to see, is not a bit afraid to tell what 
he sees, and is essentially good-natured. . . . Mr. Davis’s 
faculty of appreciation and enjoyment is fresh and strong : 
he makes vivid pictures. — Outlook, N. Y. 

Richard Harding Davis never writes a short story that he 
does not prove himself a master of the art. — Chicago Times. 


HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

pgr Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage pre- 
paid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on 
receipt of the price. 














]UN 251904 





















Deacidified using the Bookkeeper 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium O) 
Treatment Date: 



AUG 

BBftftEEl 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOt 
\C 111 Thomson Park Drive 
'' Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(4131 779-3111 












BRENTANO’S 
Booksellers & Stationers, 
Washington, D. C'. 


/■ 









